No One Left to Know
by sunkissed13
Summary: A young girl, Keira, has fallen into a life of thieving. She is all alone in the world, no one left to care, no one left to know. That is, until S.H.I.E.L.D. show up. Hawkeye noticed her during the alien invasion. Will she join S.H.I.E.L.D? Or will she fall back into the hell she was living? Will she become a master assassin, a protégé of Hawkeye and Black Widow? Or an enemy?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_ Decision to go to New York for the summer with my father: worst decision of my entire life_, I think to myself dryly. I race down the back alleys, keeping my head down and finding cover anywhere I can. I dodge, weave, lunge, roll, trip, never stopping, never breathing except in gasps that tear at my lungs

The air was rancid with acid on my tongue as I pant and the smoke makes me retch up any food that may have remained in my stomach. An explosion that is only a few blocks away shakes the ground, throwing me off my feet. I feel the sting as the pavement digs into my already blood covered elbows and knees as I roll. I get up and start over again, bent on survival. I duck behind a dumpster as an unknown object flies overhead. I just know that whatever those things are, they are blowing people up without regard to anything or anyone, and I definitely won't be an exception.

_Thump, thump, thump, thump_ my feet go on the pavement. I feel a twinge in my knee.

_Crap_

_Not now!_

I limp on, trying to ignore the old injury that chooses now, of _all_ times, to make an appearance.

Sweat trickles down my forehead. I feel too weak and light headed to watch where I'm going. I suddenly burst out of the alleyway and into the main street. I let out a little shriek and grab the alley wall, whipping myself back into its shadow. I cling there for a second, letting my sobs rack myself as I rest for a moment, sagging into my own arms.

Suddenly, something catches my eye. Whether it was the wind ruffling the little brown mob of hair, or just a sixth sense, I'll never know, but I look up and see a small boy of about four or five years old standing in the middle of the street. People run by him, fleeing away from oncoming flying objects, but no one takes the time to help him. He must have gotten separated from his parents. He is now standing alone in the debris of the street, staring with wide green eyes at the oncoming bombs.

"Kid!" I hiss, trying to get his attention. "Kid, look at me!" he doesn't even turn. The world seems to slow down, everything is in slow motion. There is no sound. No more bombs, no more gunfire, just me and the boy. After a fraction of a second of hesitation, I start sprinting towards him, but everything is too slow. A bomb goes off on my right, nearly knocking me off my feet, but I press on. Finally, I reach him and grab his tiny body, yanking it against mine protectively, and then everything speeds up. The U. (because they really are Unidentified Flying Objects since I have no idea what they are) are almost on us. Maybe, if I can dodge their fire than I'll be able to make it out, but that is a long shot. Suddenly, a couple of them drop down off the U.F.O's and what I see makes my heart stop.

They are ugly Extraterrestrial creatures. Thick armor like metal encases their whole body while they carry extremely high tech guns in their hands. They seem to almost run on some form of electricity from the wires that I see in their neck. Are they even alive? I shudder and push the boy behind me.

"Get into the alley kid!" I hiss over my shoulder to him. I meet his huge green eyes as he stares up at me. He shakes his head mutely and stubbornly. I grit my teeth in frustration, and admiration. Plucky little kid. But I don't have time for this. The… _aliens_?... Are almost on us.

"I said get into the alley and run! Do you want me to tell your mother?"

His eyes fill up with unshed tears and he whispers, "My mummy is dead."

I feel a pain in my heart like a rusty, serrated knife stabbing my heart. "You don't want to end up like her do you?" I say a bit harsher than I mean to. "If not, than get your little butt into the alley and run!"

"But you'll die if I go!" he whispers back frantically.

That is probably true, ok, it _is_ true. I'll die anyway whether he stays or not, but I'd rather buy his time than let him die with me, though he will probably die anyway. I can't tell him that. "Kid, I'll be fine. I promise. Now GO!"

He stubbornly shakes his head again and I'm out of time. The first alien is loping towards me in an awkward, jerky, crouching stride. It points its gun, aiming at me. I push the kid one way and dive the other, turning a roll and springing up. I lunge at the alien just as it turns to me, and before it can pull the trigger, I push the nozzle towards another alien, taking it out instead of me.

I grab the gun and try to twist it out of the alien's grip, but only succeed in sending it skidding away from both of us. The alien grapples with me, both seeking a hold. I know absolutely no fighting what-so-ever. I know I can't punch it, not with that armor on.

The alien just gets a hold on my throat and its iron fingers are slowly throttling the life out of me. I throw a frantic glance in the kid's direction and see another alien closing in on him with a leering grin plastered on its face. Anger floods through me. I use my flexibility (courtesy of my old sport, gymnastics) and throw my leg over the alien's head, pushing my thigh into my own face. While it is resting on the alien's neck and I use my other leg to wrap around the other side of its body. This increases the strain on my neck for a second before it lets go to catch its fall as it pitches forward with my body weight. We roll forward and I gain the upper hand. Purely by accident though, this thing is about twice my strength. I grab the wire that is on its neck and pull with all my might. There is the sizzling sound of electricity and a shock that runs through me before it goes still with a shudder.

I spring up and grab the previously discarded high tech gun. The other alien is now aiming the gun at the boy, who is transfixed with fear, still in the same position as when I pushed him over. I run forward and stab it through the back. It too dies with a shudder. I yank the weapon free and watch it fall to the ground. The kid and I just stare at it for a moment.

The kid is the first to recover and scrambles up beside me.

"What do we do now?" he asks.

"Now, we run for our lives. Go!"

But before we can make it to the alley way, a whole squad of these things land around us. I grab the boy's hand and yank him back behind me again. He whimpers and I whirl around only to face another alien. We are surrounded and I know there is no way we are getting out of this alive, so I grit my teeth and decide to go down fighting for the boy.

I fumble with the gun for a moment before firing it supposedly at one of the aliens. Apparently, I had it facing the wrong way and it shoots behind me and hits an alien behind us. I thank God that the boy is so short. He is standing right behind me.

The kid giggles a little bit, irony abounds considering the circumstances. I feel a small smile twitch my lips as well. The first alien starts loping towards us and I raise the weapon, ready to fire, and then they all start moving.

_This is it. This is how I'm going to die. Not how I always imagined, I guess._

I grit my teeth and wait for the first onslaught, but it never comes. Something hits the two of us from behind. At first I think it's an alien, but this thing clamps down on my waist and holds on. I try to twist around, not going down without a fight, when suddenly, the winds starts whistling in my ears and my dark hair starts whipping around my face. I freeze and clamp my eyes shut for no particular reason, willing this odd sensation to go away, but it doesn't.

I open my eyes again and the ground is far away. I see the aliens staring up with baffled expressions on their metal faces. Then I notice another pair of black boots next to mine. Twisting around, I find myself face-to-face with a man. My heart rate accelerates and I start struggling again. Who is this guy, and how does he go swinging between buildings like Spider Man?

His low chuckle resonates in my ear. "If you keep struggling, you'll only fall."

My stomach clenches and I think I blanch a little. He's right, and it's a _long_ ways down. I curl up and clamp onto his arm around my waist like a vice. I feel him chuckle again, which makes me grit my teeth in irritation, but I know better than to argue.

I twist around just to make sure the kid is with us, and sure enough, he is somehow being held on to. This man seems to be holding on to a… bow? Who does he think he is? Legolas? A wire seems to be attached to the bow. I follow it up and see an arrow shot into a concrete wall which seems to be some sort of pulley device since we are being wheeled up. I shudder to think that this man's, my own, and the forty pounds of the kid are all being held on the tiny arrow.

The man seems to read my thoughts, which I find unnerving.

"Those things are made to hold, it won't break," he said with a hint of amusement.

I don't have the time to come up with some snide remark. We reach the top of the building, since the arrow is shot right under the edge of the roof, and with a single hoist, he throws me and the kid up. We roll for a couple feet. I lie there for a second, and then start pushing myself up with a groan. I drag myself over to the kid. He seems alright, but he's not moving. I run my fingers through his hair, like I remember my mother doing when I had a nightmare, and start to speak softly to him.

"Hey kiddo, I need you to get up now. We are safe for a little while, I think," I add on as a second thought. Although one would usually be safe from the war this high up, the aliens have those flying mechanisms. As we speak, a couple zoom overhead. I crouch down on reflex until they are gone.

I start searching for the man, and sure enough, he is laboriously climbing up onto the roof. I consider helping him for a moment, but by the look of things, he has it under control, even if it is straining him. I turn back to the boy and immediately find his huge hazel eyes boring into mine.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?" I laugh.

"For saving my life," he whispers back. Wow, this five year old is extremely intelligent for his age. What kind of five year old would think of saying that?

"Don't mention it kid. What's your name?"

"Jackson," he replies. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he is still petrified. I try to sooth him.

"Well Jackson, it'll be ok. I promise," I add with a smile. A voice behind me interrupts my thoughts.

"He's not your brother?" the man asks with confusion.

"Never seen him before in my life," I respond. I can see why the man would think that. After all, I was willing to die protecting him. Not many people would do that. I probably did because I know how it feels to be left to the sharks. It's not pretty when everyone abandons you.

He raises an eyebrow in question, but doesn't pursue the subject further. Instead, he offers me a hand, which I gladly except before turning and picking up the little kid and setting him on my hip. Jackson buries his face in my neck and I can feel his hot tears running down my shoulder. I rub soothing circles on his back and turn to the man, looking up at him since he is a good nine or ten inches taller than me.

"So what now?"

He doesn't answer me, but stares at something over my head. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he dives at me with a yell. His body hits mine with a force that knocks all the breath out of my lunges. If I wasn't holding Jackson I probably would have punched him or something. The force of the hit carries us back and smashes my back against the glass windows behind me (even though it is a roof, it seems to be some sort of terrace garden that overlooks Manhattan). I feel some jagged cuts on my back as we hit the ground, but something else catches my attention. The place we were standing two seconds ago bursts into flames as open fire from the alien's flying mechanisms pounds against it. Dang, this man must have some killer vision to see that coming.

He rolls off me and grabs the collar of my surplus army jacket and drags me to my feet. I cradle Jackson and pray that he isn't hurt. The man pushes me towards some desks.

"Get the kid behind those and stay out of sight," he orders. I don't argue and stumble over to them, quickly ducking in the compartment underneath one of the desks. It's dark and quiet in here and oddly comforting after the mayhem outside, but it makes me edgy. Some part of my instinct tells me something is not right.

Jackson lifts his head and I see he has a busted lip and a black eye, but nothing to serious. My body took the brunt of the fall, unfortunately. I can feel the small stabs of pain from the glass shards still inside me every time I move a muscle.

I lift a finger to my lips in a motion for Jackson to stay silent. He understands immediately and nods his head sagely, causing a grin to tug my blood covered lips. Kids are adorable. I twist around as much as I can in our confined space and peek out of a crack between the wood.

I look for the man, but I can't see him anywhere. My first thought is he has abandoned us. Maybe that is a little premature considering the fact that he just saved our lives, but after my past one couldn't blame me for having trust issues. My eyes flicker about frantically for any sign of him, but I find nothing, not a shift of shadow nor the slightest sound.

Sounds outside catch my attention. The aliens must have thought us valuable enough to chase after because I can see them jumping onto the terrace. My breath catches in my throat and I hunch down, pulling Jackson even closer to my chest.

The aliens advance with that odd stride of theirs, their guns poised to fire at anything. I count seven of them. They are getting closer and closer. I try my hardest not to breathe or make the smallest sound, but my breathing accelerates with panic. We are on our own, and if they turn over the right table, Jackson and I are dead. It's like one big game of jackpot.

The last alien enters through the shattered window, and suddenly, I see the man's silhouette slither silently down from the rafters. How did he get there? Then again, why am I even asking?

I see him load his bow, aiming at the alien closest to us, and I hold my breath, praying he has good aim.

_Twang!_

_Phhht!_

_Thump!_

His arrow finds its mark perfectly and I wonder why I even doubted his skill. The aliens let out ear grating screeches and turn to converge on the man. I panic for a moment, but then see that he has everything completely under control. He uses his bow as a staff at close courters, and then fires when he can, but it is slow going. These things have heavy armor and even someone as trained as the man has a hard time taking one down in a single stroke. I remember just how lucky I was to have survived the first encounter.

I forget about Jackson and loosen my grip on him a little as I lean forward breathlessly to watch the fight. That is a big mistake. He lifts his head just a little and is able to peek out of the crack. He sees one of the alien's necks being snapped by the man and lets out a small scream. I immediately clamp my hand over his mouth, but I'm too late. An alien pauses mid attack and turns our direction.

My blood freezes. It slowly saunters over, its malicious eyes peering around our general area. I desperately look towards the man for help, but he is too busy in the attack to notice our predicament. If I call out for help, it will only end up in getting us killed for certain.

I lean forward and my breath tickles the boy's ear as I say a softly as possible while still being heard, "I'm going to create a diversion. When that happens, you crawl over to the corner of the room and do not make _any_ noise, do you understand me? And no more stubborn hero antics this time little punk."

He nods mutely, his intense hazel eyes wide with unspoken terror. I peek into the crack again and see that the alien is closer to us. It is heading right for this desk, its gun poised to fire and its metallic face fiendishly twisted in a jerky grin. I nod once to Jackson and he nods back in acknowledgement. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Suddenly, I galvanize into action. I push Jackson away from me and whirl around, lying on my back and using my feet as levers, I push the desk with all my might.

_Whump!_

It skids and hits the alien right in the face. Before it can get up and recover, I'm on top of it. I wrench its gun out of its grip and whirling it around, shoot the alien in the face. I freeze momentarily at the horrific sight. The alien seems to be a mixture of metal and wires, but also a white, lifeless, slimy flesh that was blown open when I shot him. But that moment I paused cost me. I feel a shooting pain in my leg. It is so intense that I almost wonder if this is all a dream. Then again, you're not supposed to feel things in dream, right?

I whip my head up and fire at the first moving thing I find. Luckily it isn't the man, but the alien that shot me in the leg first. Then the pain _really_ sets in and I collapse to the ground with a cry of help to the man. I see him turn towards me and his face hardens at what he sees. There are only two left that he is battling. He whips out and arrow and buries it in one's neck without even bothering to load it into his bow, and then he uses a knife and slashes another one through what _would_ be the heart on a human

He pauses a moment, looking about him as if for more targets, breathing heavily, but sees all the enemies are dead.

His gaze travels to me, and I can literally see his jaw clench. I thought people only did that in books.

In a moment, he is by my side and lifts me up gently, so as not to hurt my leg, but I can't stifle a cry anyways.

"I told you to stay out of sight. You could have gotten killed, or worse. Why didn't you listen?" he asks. His voice is cool, but I can sense the irritation behind the question.

I look him straight in the eye and answer, "Because I'm _really_ stupid."

Humor, the ultimate stress reliever.

He snorted a little with a lopsided grin. I take that as a laugh. I don't look down in fear of what I'll see. Instead, I let this man handle it.

He props me against an upturned desk and stretches my leg out to get a better look. I watch him carefully as he examines it, but his face doesn't betray a single thing. He could be looking at the Sunday morning's paper for all the cool face he puts on.

I lean my head back and stare fuzzily at the horrible office ceiling. I had forgotten all about my knee. The adrenaline from the chase had probably eased the pain. I feel the man's fingers probe around and wince. To keep my mind occupied I try striking up a conversation.

"So what is your name?"

He glances at me momentarily before returning to my leg, "Hawkeye."

"Seriously, your name is Hawkeye?" I ask incredulously. Who has that kind of name?

He taps his temple, "Code name girl. Speaking of which, what is yours?"

I stiffen for a moment and then force myself to relax. Any normal person wouldn't have caught this little move, but Hawkeye did. I can tell from the odd glance he shoots me. I can't tell him my real name, so I invent one. "Stephanie Riles is my name. I don't have a code name," I can't help but add. This brings a ghost of a smile to his face.

He suddenly seems preoccupied. His hand goes to his ear and he presses it as if he had an ear piece in it. Then it hits me, he probably does. All spies do, in movies at least. I let out a groan as a fresh wave of pain hits my leg.

"Nat, are you busy? Helping wounded civilians in here, but I need backup. No, meet me rendezvous spot. You still with the Captain? Good."

I guess he is talking to someone over the com line. Probably other master assassins that are helping fight this extraterrestrial attack.

He turns to me with a pointed gaze, "And you, we need to get you and the boy to a safe area. You will wait there until I come and find you again, is that clear?" he asks sternly. I nod mutely with the sincere intention to do exactly the opposite of what he says. I don't trust anyone to 'come and get me' from anywhere. If he wants to take me to the hospital, well I can do that just fine by myself, and if he wants to kidnap me, well… I know how to hide _extremely_ well.

I look around for the kid, and he is sitting right next to me. I don't know how I didn't hear him. His mop of brown hair is tangled in all directions and his freckled face is smeared with blood, but when I look at him his face lights up in a genuine smile. I can't help but smile back.

"Nasty cut you got you your leg," he said, pointing at it. My eyes follow his finger down to my leg. _Big mistake_.

I almost heave right then and there. I swear, the pain increases about double once I see what it looks like. Below my knee is a huge burn that stretches across my shin all the way down to the bone at the worst part. My calf seems to be better, but this burn would probably qualify as _fourth_ degree burn instead of third.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and snap out of staring at my leg. I lift my eyes and find myself face to face with Hawkeye. His green-blue eyes intense with adrenaline and his hair slightly plastered with sweat.

I realize I must have almost fainted and that I clutched the nearest thing to me with a death grip, which happened to be his arm. I slowly pry my fingers off, revealing deep nail marks embedded in his skin. Glancing up apologetically, I mumble, "Sorry 'bout that."

He chuckled good naturedly, "No problem. Don't worry about your leg. It's just a burn. It'll hurt like hell for a couple weeks, but no permanent damage."

I leaned my head back with a groan and grasped my thigh in a pitiful attempt to ease the burning. "You and I have a very different connotation with the word 'worry.'"

He chuckled again. Suddenly, the world underneath me disappeared and strong arms clasped around my shoulders and under my knees. I might have screeched a bit and clutched him frantically as he picked me up.

"Hey kid, keep up," Hawkeye calls over his shoulder to Jackson. I peer over his shoulder as well just to make sure the kid is coming. Jackson stumbles to his feet and starts trotting after us to keep up with Hawkeye's long strides.

I feel uncomfortable with our proximity. It's not like I'm some chastity freak that doesn't get within a foot of a man, but I've only known this guy for a couple hours. Sure, he saved my life, but that gives me no more reason to trust him than another thug off the streets. Any rat can save my life, but they always do it for a price. Earning no more respect of trust from me than if they had let me die. Call me paranoid, but my theory has worked so far. I'm alive now, right? My point proven.

I stay very stiff in his arms, ready for any sudden movement. A small smirk twitches at his lips, though it isn't a smile, or a laugh, it's just an expression of wry sarcasm. This guy has a very annoying 'devil may care' attitude.

"Feeling comfortable," he asks sardonically.

"Beats walking," I try to sound as lighthearted as possible, but I know he cans see through my ruse. The fact that he knows about my trust issues makes me paranoid and the fact that he can see that I'm trying my hardest to cover them up makes me feel uncomfortable. A rather unpleasant position to be in the whole.

Luckily, he doesn't try to start up any more conversations and contents himself with indulging in his sarcastic remarks in his head. I'm not about to complain though.

He sets a swift pace and starts heading down the endless passages of stairs. He is going extremely fast, and I can only imagine how fast he could move if he wasn't burdened with an injured civilian and a toddler.

"Couldn't we take the elevator?" I remark as we are about half way down. All the jostling of the stair is making my leg burn like a white hot piece of metal is being shoved against my shin. I clench my teeth to stop myself from crying out and occasionally I have to squeeze my eyes shut to stop tears from welling up. I still feel uncomfortable, to say the least, but you get used to it after a while, and frankly, I would prefer this to walking.

"Sorry about that," he says as an apology. He actually sounds genuine. I'm sure he can see my ill attempts of covering my pain, and the apology is for the jostling. Of course, he doesn't answer the question since it was mostly rhetorical. No elevator would be safe and no sane person would use it when there is an extraterrestrial attack.

We run down the stairs, turn a corner, run down another flight, turn a corner, and so on and so forth. I am checking on Jackson anxiously, trying to make sure he's keeping up. He is staggering a little now, his tiny brow puckered in concentration. I know it is only a matter of time before he stumbles.

We are about three fourths of the way down when he finally trips over his own feet and goes head first down the stairs. Luckily, Hawkeye was already at the bottom of the flight, is Jackson doesn't take us down with him as well.

I squirm in Hawkeye's arms. "Let me down and help the kid. I can walk."

Hawkeye's face is grim, "No way in hell that's happening. You couldn't make it three steps."

"I can take care of myself," I snap. "The kid needs more help than me."

"I don't see the kid with the skin on his leg practically melted off. He can take a few bruises, isn't that right kid?"

Jackson stands shakily up, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just quit calling me kid. My name is Jackson."

I feel a smile twitch at my lips despite myself. So we keep going. Finally, we reach the bottom. Hawkeye sprints through the lobby of the building (Jackson at his heels) and bursts out into the war ravaged street. The fight is still hot down here. Luckily, there are no aliens picking on us presently. I look over Hawkeye's shoulder and see one hassling some civilians. My blood boils.

"Hawkeye, you have to help them!" I shout over the noise. He meets me in the eye and his face is grimly cool. It sends shudders down my spine.

"I can't save everyone, Stephanie. Sometimes you have to choose."

My eyes fill with hopeless tears. I want to ask him why he picked me. I want to ask him not to save me and help people who might actually be worth his trouble, but I can't open my mouth. I gaze over his shoulder, my vision clouded with tears.

The alien raises a gun to a girl about my age. She is fighting. She is fighting to stay alive so hard. Her wild eyes raise at the same time as the gun and she sees her doom right in front her. She freezes and knows it's the end. Her eyes close and suddenly, her face goes extremely calm. I can see her courage. She opens her eyes and meets mine. My hand flies to my mouth as I cover it in horror. We share a small moment right there. A link forms itself without consent. I feel like this girl is my sister.

I shake my head in horror. She just nods her head resolutely. She is trying to communicate with me. She is saying things that words cannot express. Then she closes her eyes and the shot is fired. It ends.

I let out a strangled sob and burry my face in Hawkeye's chest, trying to block out the image. But I know what comes next. Her body will slump, lifeless, to the ground. Her blood will spread across the pavement like a blanket and her dull eyes will be glazed over in death, but I can't accept it.

She deserved to live. She deserved it so much more than me.

"You should've saved her. She deserved it more than me," I sob out loud into Hawkeye's chest. "I don't deserve it. I don't—"

I break off, unable to continue as I huddle in his arms, feeling something that makes me sob even more. Vulnerable.

I honestly don't know what happens from then on. I try to shut out the world as I bury my face in the hard armor of Hawkeye's vest, my hot tears making the rough polyester weave hot and damp. I don't care.

Suddenly, Hawkeye sets me down. I gasp in pain and clutch at my leg, but his hand catches my wrist.

"Don't touch it, that'll make it worse. I won't bandage it yet. It should breathe. I'll be back as soon as I can and you _are going to stay here_," he emphasizes the last part. He doesn't wait for conformation and sprints off to save the world. I look to where he has left us (Jackson is still with us. How he kept up with Hawkeye I have no idea). We are in a back alley like the ones I was hiding in at the beginning of the attack. Hawkeye tucked us behind a dumpster and next to a chain link fence. I realize that we are in such a position that if anyone walked by they wouldn't see us if we kept completely still. It is a little freaky to think that he can find such a place.

All I want to do right now is curl up in a ball and sob, never moving. But this guy will be back and when he comes I need to be long gone.

"Jackson, are you ok?" I croak. He nods, his eye brimming with tears. I ruffle his hair affectionately. "Don't worry about it kid, we'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about me. I saw a woman. She was old. She was just standing there, praying to God to save her, and he didn't. The alien shot fire out of its stick and she collapsed and never moved again. Will she go to heaven and meet God? Why didn't he save her?" Jackson sobbed brokenly through a flood of tears that appeared through his pitiful defense against them. I felt the searing pain in my chest that was always so familiar, but this time it felt so much more vivid than before. Before when it was… NO! I won't let myself go there! Not now at least.

I pull the kid to me and nestle him under my arm. "Hey, it's ok. God has his own plans, and although we might not understand them they are there for a reason. It's like a painting. We only see a miniscule part of it, and that pattern may not make any sense, but when God's painting is done than we see how our little part fit into his big masterpiece. That woman didn't die needlessly." I don't know that I'm so much talking to Jackson and about the old woman as much as I'm talking to myself and about the _young_ woman. Though these words cause Jackson to perk up a little, they fall dead on my ears. They are the same words I have been telling myself desperately for years, all the while hoping that I'll find some peace in them, but only becoming more and more tormented.

I snap myself out of it. _Get yourself together Keira_, I mentally berate myself. "Ok Jackson, we need to get moving."

"But Hawkeye said we need to wait until he gets back," Jackson complained with a whine in his voice.

"I know what Hawkeye said, but plans change. We need to get out of here and now," I reply firmly.

Jackson narrows his eyes and looks at me shrewdly. "You don't trust him," he states matter-of-factly.

I shrug, "That might be an understatement."

"But why? He saved our lives," Jackson tries to reason.

I can feel my face harden. "Kid, people do a lot of things for a lot of reasons. Hawkeye might have saved our lives out of the goodness of his heart, but then again not. Better not to find out than stick around for something bad to happen. If he really wants to help than he would be happy to know that you and I made it to a hospital and leave it at that."

Jackson pouts, but doesn't say any more. Slowly and painfully, I pull myself up. Leaning on Jackson, we make our way out of the alley. Things seem to have died down quite a bit, or maybe the fighting is somewhere else. I recognize the street we are on and lead Jackson towards the nearest hospital. It takes an effort that is beyond belief (and I won't describe it to you because you would get bored very quickly) to make it all the way there, but we do. I am in terrible shape though.

Finally we drag ourselves up to the hospital doors and into the lobby. My world is reeling as I try to croak out some words for help, but instead I just keel over, my vision swimming. Jackson is yelling something and I see paramedics run up through my distorted and hazy vision. That is all I see before I completely black out.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. Wow you guys! Thanks for the support! Four reviews in like eight hours :) Not bad! If you guys have any suggestion on how the story goes, just write it in the reviews. I already have like seven chapters written out, so I may or may not use your suggestions... If it gets up to ten reviews, I'll update instantly! {the next chapter is A LOT longer. I promise :)}

**Chapter 2**

I am in limbo. There is no time or space. Only dark blackness that surrounds me in oblivion. Some say that oblivion is bliss. I beg to differ. It is hell. I cannot wake up from it even if I want to. I cannot hold an actual thought process. But what scares me most is I cannot know if I am in danger or not. Someone could be preparing to kill me at this moment and I would never know.

Time has no meaning, but finally I feel my senses slowly returning. I can feel myself lying on a surface, though I cannot determine what the surface is made of. I feel the dark edge of the oblivion start to slip away and my sense of direction comes slowly. I am lying on my back. My hearing returns next. I register an odd _beep, beep_ in the background. My fingertips brush against what I think is rough fabric. Slowly, my swimming vision comes as I blink my eyes open.

I'm lying on my back in a hospital room with a heart monitor and tubes and wires all hooked up around me. I feel fine, except for the throbbing pain in my leg. I rip off the tubes and wires, causing an alarm to go off, but I ignore it. Looking down at my leg, I see it has been bandaged and cleaned and I can feel the shot of pain killers in my system. Despite the fact that the burn is extremely bad, it didn't seem to go too deep that it was life threatening, but I'm sure I'm going to walk with a limp for the rest of my days. I wince at the thought and quickly cover up the wound with the bandage again.

I know I only have a couple seconds before the nurse comes in. I rummage around in the draws and find my old clothes neatly folded and tucked away. They have been cleaned luckily, though they still have holes in them. I tug them on without regard to my injury and tuck some painkillers into my pocket. I limp to the window and look out. Luckily I am only a two stories off the ground. I shove the window open and balance in a crouch on the ledge. I hear the door open behind me and an angry voice yelling at me. I ignore it and jump into the air, but not in the direction of the ground. I jump and grab a drain pipe, using it to shimmy down to the ground. Luckily this doesn't use my leg too much, but it still hurts like hell. Once I land, I take off sprinting as fast as I can, but my limp is horribly obvious. I run away from the hospital and into a nearby alleyway. I slow to a walk and weave in an impossible maze through the back alleys and slums of New York that I know so well. No one will be able to follow me, especially that Hawkeye. I just hope that he isn't so persistent that he will follow me to the ends of the earth, but from the look of it, it seems as though he works for some big organization with lots of connections.

I finally make it to my first hide out. It is simply a hole in a wall, but I crawl into it and block up the entrance behind me. Searching for a moment to my right, my fingers come in contact with a flashlight that I click on. Before me is a tunnel and I crawl along it for about a minute before immerging in my haven. Though outside is dirty and filthy, it is warm, clean, and organized in here. I pull a string and lights flicker on with the humming of electricity. A nice couch is tucked in the corner with a warm, fuzzy blanket draped over it, a full length mirror occupies another corner and an animal skin rug covers the hard cement floor. I won't stay here long, just until I can move. I lie down on the couch and stare at the cement ceiling, thinking of the past events. I wonder how Jackson made it ok.

* * *

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

It was over, finally. The aliens were all defeated thanks to Stark and his nuke. Speaking of Stark, he will not shut up about his quick rescue. Sure, at first I felt obligated to him since he saved our asses and all of New York's, but that feeling melted away as soon as the complaining, snarky, smart ass Stark came back.

_Shawarma_, you've got to be kidding me. But here we are eating in the cheap, beat up restaurant. It is peacefully quiet though, as all our quiet exhaustion fills the air. It has a sense of finality to it, but something keeps nagging me in the back of my mind. That girl. She looks like she is probably a kid off the street. Her clothes were nice, but years of my job tell me they were stolen, or borrowed as she would probably say. I'm betting she is a runaway.

_Why_ am I taking so much interest in her? Well, it is because of a lot of reasons. I saw her cornered. I saw her when she thought she was going to die, and I thought so too, and I saw her courage. Her talent, though in the raw and undefined, was undoubtedly there. The will and determination she had to live, combined with her unnatural flexibility and quick reflexes were the ideal combination to make a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, or assassin. Natasha and I were the only two with our kind of training and who knows how soon S.H.I.E.L.D. might need another? She was too golden of an opportunity to pass up, and I don't intend to.

After about five minutes more, I push away from the table and head out the door without a word. I feel all five eyes on me, but stubbornly ignore them. I push open the swinging door and walk into the bright sunlight. Pausing for a moment, I blink to let my vision adjust. The carnage and rubble around me is unimaginable, but it is not my duty to work search and rescue. My duty is done, except for one final deed.

I take off through the streets, traveling completely silently and staying in the shadows. Many an unsuspecting civilian doesn't even realize how close an assassin was to brushing their arm. I laugh silently to myself thinking of how many people would be dead right now if I wished them to be. True, these thoughts might disturb the normal person, but then again, I'm not normal. It's just my job.

I turn the corner, heading straight for the dumpster behind which I hid the girl and kid. Something isn't right. I frown and break into a sprint. My suspicions are confirmed as I near the dumpster. Newspapers flutter inconsolably as they yield their empty hands where a small girl and a young kid rested not too long ago. Of course, what had I been thinking? The girl was too smart, and stubborn, to stay in one place for long. She was off the street, a spawn of the slums. She probably knew more about the backhanded ways than the freakin mafia. Her evasiveness only adds to my determination. No person has ever eluded my net for long.

I search for a blood trail from her burn and sure enough, I see one headed down the opposite way I came. I head stealthily down the alley and follow it into the street. The blood trail turns left. I pause for a moment, wondering where she was going, and then it hits me. Of course, she would head to the hospital and get treatment. No doubt she had already moved on, someone like her who was running from me would no doubt be smart enough to stay no longer than a day in one place, but I head to the hospital anyway.

I burst through the lobby, walking up to the nearest nurse. The hospital is in an uproar, as might be expected. The nurse turns to look at me and I visibly see her shrink. No doubt my weapons strapped all over my body must give a rather alarming first impression, but I don't have time for that. Instead, I get right to the point.

"Has a teenage girl with dark hair, hazel eyes, about five foot tall and a severe leg burn been here?"

The woman looks at me skeptically, trying to decide whether or not to answer me. Unfortunately for her, I don't have time for this. With a growl, I step closer. The words literally babble out of her mouth.

"A girl matching your description came. She was put in the I.C.U., but the minute she woke up she escaped out the window. Climbed like a monkey out of a tree she did!" the woman added indignantly. I couldn't help but smirk. That is definitely the girl I'm looking for. Without another word, I turn heel and leave the woman standing dumbfounded.

Static bursts on my com line before a voice comes in.

"Agent Barton, we need you on the bridge. An evacuation carrier is being sent for you and the Avengers. Meet at rendezvous spot Alpha 110. Over and out."

I continue on my path, deep in thought. I'll have a better chance of finding the girl with the help of the technology of S.H.I.E.L.D. than on my own. She has gone to earth and disappeared in the slums of the city. It would take me a long time to find her if I tried. Too long.

A.N. Oh, and sorry for any typos. I jammed my finger, so I'm trying to type with my fingers taped together


	3. Chapter 3

A.N. Hi guys! I decided to update again :) I think I'll add chapter four tonight since this chapter is shorter. And about Jackson. Don't worry, he'll come back into the picture, you just don't hear about him for a while (until chapter seven). Oh, I'm trying to find a cover for this but coming up empty. If you guys find anything, I would be much obliged! Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

I'm back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters after having seen Loki being transported to Asguard with Thor for his sentence. Now I am having an argument with one of the techs.

"Ryan, I need an override to protocol 34. I need this face trace and _now_."

"I might lose my job if I do this!"

"You'll lose a lot more than you job if you _don't_," I respond threateningly. The nervous geek in front of me wrings is hands, knowing the truth of my statement. His spikey hair quivers and I can see him quaking in his knitted cardigan and owl glasses. "Remember, you owe me. I won't let this come back to you anyways."

He pauses. "So this is off the books?"

"Yep, just you and me."

"And they won't trace it back to me?" he asks, uncertain.

"Sure," I shrug.

"Fine, but only because I owe you for that one time and this isn't happening again," he says, snapping the picture of the girl from my hands.

"Whatever Copernicus," I hiss before leaving the computer facility. I had gotten the picture from a feed on a camera on my bow. S.H.I.E.L.D. has all the toys.

With the recourses the geek has, there's no way she can stay completely hidden for long. Besides, she obviously made her living off thieving so it shouldn't be too long before she shows up on the radar.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

It had been two weeks now. I was finally out of hiding. My leg was healing as well as it could, but I have a very visible limp and an angry red burn running down my leg still. I wore jeans and long pants to cover the bandages, but that didn't do much since my limp was a big give away. I walk through the streets of New York, heading to my next hideout. The hole in the wall is nice, but a little cliché. After all, it's not like I'm some criminal off the streets. Well, the police force would beg to differ, but who cares about them.

I'm in the better part of town, definitely a place that would be noticed as a prime spot for a person on the 'Most Wanted' list. I trot up the steps of a cute, yellow bungalow house and pull the key from under the door mat. After a bit a jimmying, I step inside. It is not overly furnished, but light and airy with an open floor plan and cute window treatments. Light colors are everywhere, making it seem like it is sunny inside. Plush, comfy couches are positioned in front of a large flat screened TV. I toss the key onto the kitchen nook table, making myself at home. I just have to wait for tonight when I'm going to make my daily thieving rounds. I might be a little incapacitated, but no one has been able to catch me so far and I need some more clothes and money. I'm betting I'll be fine.

* * *

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I am getting frustrated. It has been two weeks and no sign of the girl. No amateur has been able to stay away from S.H.I.E.L.D. that long. I just have to wait, and that is something I'm good at.

I'm at the target practice with my bow. _Breathe in, breathe out, release, phhht, bullseye._

I never miss. Ever. The pattern repeats itself and I find something soothing about its rhythm.

Suddenly my pager beeps. I'm needed in the computer facility. He's found her. I pack up my bow and head over through the maze of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

I reach the door and lean in, letting it scan my face. A female mechanic voice speaks.

"Agent confirmed."

The door opens and I stride in. The geek is waiting by the door with a file in his hands. He holds it out to me and I take it, flipping it open.

"She showed up on our radar just now. She apparently had some fun at a bank and a clothing store. A bit odd if you ask me, but another fact, she's on the most wanted list of New York for all her burglaries. They never got complete footage of her, but the description is definitely her. I was able to hack into the security feed and get a view, but she is amazingly good at avoiding cameras, or at least hiding her face from them. I matched her silhouette the one of your picture, and it is an identical match."

The geek babbles on as I skim over the file he pulled up from the picture I gave him. I have the location and now her past. The geek's next words snap me out of my reading.

"There is one problem though. I found that file in the deceased. Her date of death was July 19th, 2010," he points at the bottom of the file to where her date of birth and date of death are together.

"So this means that you are either looking for a ghost, literally, or this person is a pro, or she has the help of pros. Why would she want herself to disappear?"

"No idea Geek, but I'm sure as hell going to find out," I respond grimly.

"Are you now? Because I don't remember giving any authorization for this juncture," says a new voice behind me. I wince a little, shooting the Geek a dirty glare. He cowers.

"I had to tell the director. I could've lost my job!" he defends himself. I promise with my eyes that I'm going to make him pay for it later, slowly and painfully.

"Agent Barton, let's have a talk," Director Fury says. I turn and find his one eye studying me with a calculated look. I nod curtly and move to the door.

The Director follows me out into the hall and I hear the door slide shut behind us. No one is here, so I stop and look at him expectantly. The Director places his hands behind his back as if debating how to approach this.

"Agent Barton, I would like to know your interest in this kid, for kid she is."

I debate in turn, trying the word I'm about to say, testing them and seeing how they sound before answering. "I saved her life during Loki's war. I saved her because I saw talent. I saw all the traits needed to make an assassin like Romanoff, but I saw the qualities needed to make a soldier as well. She could be a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. with the right training. I saw talent in the raw. She is only fifteen, is on the Most Wanted list of New York, granted she is at the bottom, but they haven't so much as caught a facial of her, she faked her death so her real identity isn't even a possibility of being suspected."

I pause to see his reaction. He seems to be considering my proposal.

"So you basically want to train her as your protégé?"

"More or less sir, but she is undoubtedly off the street, in need of a better life, in a perfect position for S.H.I.E.L.D. to offer her a place."

He pauses again before answering, "Very well Barton, I'll follow your lead on this, but if this goes south, it will be blamed on you."

"Understood," I respond.

"Good, now get on a transport and out of here," the Director dismisses me. I nod and walk off, heading straight for the hanger. The girl, or Keira Matheson as the file said, will not have long before she gets a surprise.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm glad people are enjoying my story! Here's another update since you like it :) Anyone had any ideas for a cover? I'm still on a dead end...

**Chapter 4**

It's about midnight and I am staked out in the shadows of Keira's house. She is inside, I watched her come home, but I'm simply observing her for now and getting to know her patterns. After all, I see better from a distance. This also needs to be handled with tact. I can't just barge into her house. I would literally have to drag her back to the helicarrier and that would do no one any good.

She is skittish. I can tell by her constant looks thrown over her shoulder even inside her house. She can sense me watching her. Just another quality that makes a perfect agent, or assassin.

I watch. I wait.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

It was a good haul. I robbed a bank without any problems as usual. I smirked, leave the police to try and crack that job. No loose ends, that's how I work. I also expanded my wardrobe. All girls love clothes right? But I can't shake this feeling that I'm being watched. At the slightest sound I skitter and look over my shoulder, expecting someone to come crashing through the door. I inwardly berate myself for acting like a child, but I think my gut is trying to tell me someone's out there. I go to the back room in the house and hide the brief case of money in place no one would find it, even if they tore the house apart, then head to the couch to curl up with my concealed carry under the pillow, just to be safe.

I turn on a random TV channel and try to stay awake, but to no avail. I feel my eyelids drooping, and fall asleep, curled up in a corner of the couch.

It's light when I wake up. I know I didn't wake up on my own accord. I could swear I heard the faintest of clicking in the doorknob. My head flies up and I reach for my concealed carry, poised and tense, just waiting for the door to fly open. Nothing happens. After what must be fifteen minutes, I slowly relax and shift my position as quietly as I can, gently pushing myself to my feet and walking like a cat to the door. I pass it and walk to the window, still holding the gun by my side, and search around the house. My eye searches for the slightest disturbance in anything, but the plants on the porch or untouched, there are no footprints tracked on the porch, hell, not even the dew has left foot marks in the grass. I slowly relax, telling myself that everything is ok. _Too much excitement must have upset me_, I think dryly.

* * *

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I lie on my back, staring at the clear blue sky and cursing myself. This girl is no fool and a very light sleeper. I had been picking the lock, no, I had been _turning the door knob_ when she woke, startled by the slightest sound of the old iron squeaking in protest to my efforts of silence. I had jumped up and grabbed the eaves, hoisting myself up onto the roof just in the nick of time. Five minutes passes and I roll over and make my way, completely silent this time, to the other window. Leaning over and getting a good grip on the eaves, I stare into the window upside-down, watching her carefully as she stares motionless at the door, waiting for me to burst through the door or something. Eventually she relaxes her stiff position enough to go check the door. I thank God inwardly that I made sure to leave no tracks or sign of my presence.

Eventually, she must be satisfied with what she sees and turns, shaking her head as if to clear it. I know what she is thinking, she is thinking she is going crazy and I smirk a bit knowing the affect I can have on people.

I tighten my grip on the eaves and hold on with one hand as I let the rest of my body fall sideways and swing from my hold, not making a single sound, then drop to the ground in a crouch, barely peering into her house. Speaking of the house, I wonder who would have sold an obvious minor a house. Seriously, isn't anyone decent enough to check and see that a minor isn't in trouble? Then again, what would they care, she probably paid them in cash. Or maybe they were just too unobservant to notice.

I wait, lost in my thoughts, when suddenly I hear the front door slam. I walk in a stealthy crouch to the side of the house and watch. I know she can feel my eyes on her back because she turns, her quick eyes scanning for me, but I know she can't see me from her vantage point, but as she turns around I catch my breath.

Instead of the obvious fifteen year old, here is a twenty-four year old at least. She is wearing humongous heels, increasing her height to at least five feet five inches while her face is tactfully covered in makeup. The dark and light of it casts dramatic and exotic shadows over her eyes and cheekbones. Her dark hair is pulled away from her ivory face in a tastefully curled messy bun while she wears casual jeans (which conveniently cover her burn) and a loose blouse with the same surplus military jacket she was wearing when I first saw her. Now I see how she got the house.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I could swear I'm being followed. That nagging sensation of eyes on the back of my head is growing so intense that I feel half mad. My eyes scan and rescan my house looking in the nooks and crannies trying to see even the slightest movement, but I come up with nothing. The house is sitting staring at me innocently without as much as a flutter. With one last look, I pull my eyes hesitantly away and stride forward, walking in the certain style women with heels only can. I'm heading to church. Though I might not strike as the religious type, I'm a Roman Catholic. My mother was, so I feel close to her every time I enter attend. It is Sunday, so I attend the Mass.

After everything that has happened, my religion is the only thing that has been stable in my life. I can't risk getting settled in the church's community, so I always hide out until Communion before going up and receiving the Eucharist. I usually watch from the abandoned balcony. For some reason, the choir never sings up there so I always use it. No one ever notices and it is the perfect place to hide out.

I walk a couple blocks to the church, all the while listening for footsteps behind me and hearing none. I soon give up straining my ears and try to forget my discomfort. Instead I focus on walking normally. With heels and my burn, my limp is even more pronounce than with normal shoes, but no one would take me seriously if I looked like I was only five feet zero inches.

I enter the church and climb to the balcony, taking my normal seat by the railing overlooking the congregation. I fall into a dreamy state, watching the service, and cup my chin in my hands thinking about past memories that flit around my mind like half-forgotten ghosts.

The service is almost done, when something catches my attention. A man is leaning against the wall in the shadows, watching the service intently. I recognize his profile and the blood drains from my face. So I was being followed after all. I grip the edge of my seat with white knuckles and sit paralyzed. How on earth did he find me? That's a stupid question, he's trained for this, the question I should be asking is why did I think I'd lost him so easily?

His eyes slowly climb up and find mine on the balcony. I blanch even more visibly, and I know he can see it even in the dim light. He raises an eyebrow gives me a mock salute. This kind of open threatening is even more frightening to me than the ones I have faced in the past. He looks away, back towards the service and I use the moment to duck and hide, though I know it really doesn't matter. He meant for me to do that. He enjoys the hunt. It makes me feel sick in my stomach. I can't get down the stairs without him seeing and I can't exactly climb down any other way. The only way out of here is up. I peek from under the railing and see he is gone. That probably means he is coming for me. I only have a couple minutes before he reaches me and who knows what will happen if he gets me. In fact, I have absolutely NO idea what he wants from me, but I've found that it is usually safer to not stick around and find out.

I spot a small opening from the balcony into the roof. Perfect. I pull the string that brings down the stairs and jump up into it, scrambling up the ladder like a monkey. I don't bother to shut it behind me. First, I don't have time, and second, he it is going to take longer than it would give me time to get away. He is trained to find spots like that and will know right away where I went.

I emerge on the roof and kick off my shoes, taking them in one hand and sprinting, with a horrible limp, away to the side of the roof. I see a fire escape that I can use and waste no time in clambering down it. I'm only a fourth of the way down when I hear scrabbling above me and looking up, I see the man following me down. I get about three fourths of the way down, and risking a quick glance down below, I let go. I hit the pavement hard and somersault out of it to break the fall, but I can feel the bruises forming. It hurts, badly.

I run through the alley that I landed in, not looking behind me to see where Hawkeye is. I can guess. I have no hope of outrunning him, but I think I stand a chance if I use my knowledge of alleyways. I keep dodging in and out of alleys, leading him on a merry chase. Sometimes I double back in a circle. Finally, I get to the street I need and dive into my old hideout that I used when I got out of the hospital. I lie there, panting and waiting for the man to run by. He does eventually and I hear his footsteps fading in the distance. I know I only have a couple minutes before he figures out my trick, so I get to work. I scurry down the tunnel and into the hideout. Luckily I have my surplus army jacket, which I wear almost all the time, and jeans. I quickly swap my blouse for a fitted T-shirt and throw some running shoes on. I scurry back out the tunnel just as Hawkeye rounds the corner. I break into the fastest sprint I can manage as I hear his shout behind me. I start dodging alleyways again, all the while leading us closer to the subway.

My breath is completely out and I'm almost spent. I am a good sprinter, but my endurance is lacking, especially with my burn. This man seems to have no shortage in either category, besides, I'm sure he can sprint much faster than me. I stumble on, pushing myself faster as I desperately clutch a side cramp. I know that he knows I am starting to slow up.

Instead of turning off sharply, like I usually would, I keep going, heading straight for a busy street. I hear his footsteps behind me as he gets nearer. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see him sprinting after me. My eyes are wild with panic and my hair is disheveled as strands around my face have fallen out of my bun and cling to my face in sweat. I turn forwards run for the street. If I can make it, than I think I can get away.

I make it!

I burst into the noisy street and turn sharply, pushing people out of the way as I dodge around the crowd. I have the advantage since I can literally crawl between peoples' legs if I need to. I head for the subway.

Listening behind me, I hear enraged shouts so I know Hawkeye is still giving chase, but the crowd has slowed him considerably, as it has me, but I am still quicker. I make it to the building and burst in. The next train should be here any minute and I break into a sprint, heading for it. I hear Hawkeye behind me again, but don't turn. I dodge to the side and clamber down some stairs before jumping the last few. I don't hear Hawkeye anymore and it worries me, but I don't dwell on it. I see the train pulling up and I sprint. It's a long shot. If I do make it, then there is always the possibility he will as well, and then we will be stuck on the same train together and the chase will definitely be over, but that is a risk I need to take. The train screeches to a stop and I'm almost there! The doors slide open and people start piling in.

Just when I think I've made it, that I'm so close he can't catch me, an arm clamps around my waist. It digs into my hip bones, grinding me to a halt. Another hand grabs my wrist while the arm around my waist lets go. The minute I'm free, I twist around to face him, but he has twisted my wrist in a way that doesn't hurt _unless_ I struggle. A hot pain shoots up my arm and my brow puckers in pain. I let out a hoarse whimper and use my other hand to grasp his wrist that is holding mine in an attempt to ease the pain, but his muscles are iron bands under my hands. I'm twisted in an uncomfortable angle where my wrist is facing up behind me and my other hand is gripping his wrist as I try to wriggle to relieve as much as the strain as possible, but not stop struggling.

"Doesn't feel good, does it?" he half growls half chuckles in my ear. I grit my teeth to bite back a cry of pain that shoots like a white hot rod through my wrist as he wrenches past its point by just a few degrees. "Quit wriggling so much and it won't hurt. Now, why were you running?"

I speak through still gritted teeth as I try to shrug as nonchalantly as I can in my awkward position. "The answer is obvious, you were chasing me."

"That doesn't mean I wanted to hurt you," he points out.

I eye the train that is still being boarded, "I've found, at least in my experience, that it's better never to find out."

"Really, and what else have you found in your experience?"

I freeze. It hits me all of a sudden. I have to be extremely careful with what I let out. He is evaluating me even as I think this. Who knows what he has picked up; he has already figured out I have a past and I can't let him know any more.

"That is none of your concern what-so-ever. Now if you'll just let me go—"

"Not so fast, gorgeous," he hisses with a small wrench at my wrist, "I've chased you all this way and I won't let you get away now." His bitter laugh grates in my ear. "Though I must say, you have talent. No one has eluded me this long before. I could've burst in on you last night, but I didn't think that would make a good first impression."

"Thank you for the first part, I guess, and about the second, you haven't made a very good impression anyways."

"I saved your life—"

"Yes, but what for? Let me guess, I have something you want. Well why don't you tell me what it is so we can both go on our merry way?"

"I don't think you see to understand, I need _you_, and I'm not leaving without you."

I literally feel like puking now. This sadistic, lowlife now wants me for some evil plot of his? But that doesn't fit in with what I know before. He seemed to be saving the world with the Avengers only two weeks ago. Does the _organization_ need me now? What is going on? Although, I would rather be alive and confused than dead and enlightened.

I pull myself together and shake my head a little to clear it. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm about to miss a train."

"You're not going anywhere. What are you going to do, scream?

"I work with what I've got," I spit out before leaping into action. Instead of pulling away like the probably expected, I throw myself backwards so my back is against his chest and I duck my head under his arm, fitting myself between it and his chest, making it look like he is pinning my waist. I clutch his arm to me, pulling and fake struggling, while really I'm keeping his arm in place.

"Please! Please! Somebody help me! Rape! Please help me, anybody!" I scream hysterically as I let sobs rip my chest. I feel Hawkeye's surprise as he tries to jerk away, but I hang grimly on only making it look like he is manhandling me more. People pause what they are doing, so I escalate my screams. Two men come at Hawkeye from behind while other pause in the door of the train, causing it to stay open even though it is warning the passengers of departure. The two men pull on Hawkeye's arms, pulling them apart and thus freeing me. I run away sobbing and mingle with the crowd while I hear a commotion behind me. Quietly, I sneak into the train just as the doors close. I peek out the window and immediately spot Hawkeye's infuriated eyes as he tries to shake the men off for enough time to show them his badge, but I'm already gone.

The train zooms away and I let it take me wherever it wants. I take a seat by the window and lean my head against it, breathing hard from our encounter. I can hardly believe I got away from him. At least I'm alive one more day. I think about heading out of town, but I know that is what they (they being Hawkeye and whoever he is working for) would expect. My best bet is to stay in the busiest city of the United States that I know like the back of my hand and wait it out. I have made an enemy, and a very powerful one at that, but I guess I'll just have to live with it.

It is completely dark outside when I finally exit the train. I push through the over crowded streets and keep my head down. Slowly, the streets get dirtier and dirtier and the apartments a lot less luxurious. I stay in the shadows and keep out of sight of any suspicious looking and probably gang people that walk by. Soon, I come across an abandoned warehouse and enter it. No one, not even the gangs use it. I climb up four flights of stairs to the top level and walk across the dirty floor to the smashed out window. I let the wind whip my cheeks as I look out. I let my eyes flutter shut, enjoying the peace as I cross my arms over my chest against the bitter wind.

"Not a very pretty view," someone commented nonchalantly behind me. My muscles jerk before I can even think. I whirl around and place my hands behind me on the window posts in a brace as I crouch in a defensive position.

"Touchy, touchy," Hawkeye tisks as he leans indifferently against the wall opposite of me.

"How did you find me so quickly?" I snarl.

"I planted a tracker at you in the subway. Though I don't think that trick you pulled back there will help you anymore. Where we are people would be… _less_ than willing to help you than they would _me_," he says with a smirk. I can tell he is still steaming mad from my stunt. Not that it mattered. I was so stupid not to check for trackers! _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ I harangue myself mentally.

"Well congrats, you found me, not many people have done that. None in fact, or I would be dead by now," I snarl in return.

He shakes his head almost despairingly, "I do not wish to harm you, _Keira_," he says, emphasizing the name.

I am stunned. I never thought anyone would find my identity. They obviously had extremely smart people at this agency. "How did you find my name?" I demand.

"It took two weeks total, which is longer than anyone else has ever taken, but maybe you could better explain why we found it in the _deceased_ file," he says. I can detect a note of danger in his tone. I know it won't go well for me if I don't tell him what he wants, but that only makes me more determined

"I'm not going to tell you _anything_," I sneer, "Not now, not ever. Whatever you want me for, it won't work. I won't go! I won't! You have no right to burst into my life like this and ruin everything I—"

His laugh breaks through my tirade. "Keira, your life was ruined a long time ago. You are grasping at straws, trying to patch up an old life that is gone beyond recall. You are a thief, a waif off the streets, a fugitive of the law." He has pushed off the wall and is slowly moving towards me like a stealthy cat, his momentum carrying him forward. "And you can never get it back. You are never going to be normal again, but I'm offering you a new start. Come to S.H.I.E.L.D.; we can help you start fresh, get a new life where you actually help people instead of being a criminal running—"

My bitter laugh cuts through his sales act. I relax my defensive position and cross my arms over my chest again. I can feel the sarcastic and resentful expression on my own face as I answer him, "Help people? Since when do big organizations or agencies help people? They only cause hurt to the innocent, to people whose lives were perfect until _they_ messed them up. I have a fine life thank you very much—"

"You know I could arrest you on a daily basis for the stealing you do, I'm also especially sure the New York juvei would love to have you, since you are on the Most Wanted list."

I glare at him and continue, "I was out of the stupid system until you freak shows pulled me back in. You want to know my past? Just look at my records. That's what all government organizations do. They think they know you by looking at a piece of paper that has your name on it. They think they can decide what is best for you, or even how to use you, but do they really?"

"It's because of the foster care system, isn't it?" Hawkeye asks softly. I freeze voluntarily. "It's because of what they did to your life and your family." He moves forwards and crouches down so we are eye level. I uncross my arms and take a step back only to bump into the window. I'm trapped. I couldn't run even if I tried. His words paralyze me. "They took your family away so you thought the best way was to disappear. Perhaps you thought about suicide, but you knew that would get you nowhere, so you decided to outsmart them, to cheat the system. Well, you're back inside it now. You're what, fifteen? The minute they learn about you, you're going straight to juvei and then back to the foster homes…"

He trailed off, his eyes telling me everything. "Unless I do what you want," I finish in a whisper. He doesn't reply, but I know the answer. Instead, he watches me carefully to see my reaction. At first panic sweeps through my features. I know I won't last long in those foster homes, let alone juvei . Who would want a seriously messed up teenager anyways? No one ever wanted me. Not my dad, not even my mom… at least, not at first.

Determination replaces my previous panic. I won't go back, ever! I know I don't stand a fly's chance of beating this guy in a fight, but if I can get away than maybe I can disappear again.

I lunge sideways to get away from him, but he is quicker. He lunges with me as if he were expecting that move, which he probably was. In the corner of my eye I see his fist coming like a freight train towards my head. I duck in the nick of time, but just barely. He is fast, really fast. I don't even see his next fist coming but it slams into my abdomen. I can tell he doesn't use full force, but I hear a crunch as my ribs give way to his fist. I double over his fist and arm, coughing and sputtering in pain. He doesn't move, but lets me stay there and I am in no position to move anyways. Finally, his pushes me up and backwards. I stumble and he follows. I turn wildly and try to run, but instead I'm confronted with the open window. I turn again only to fine him coming resolutely at me. I realize it's his intention to get me out the window. What does he want to do, kill me? I lunge forward in one last desperate attempt to get away, but his hand encases my wrist and he jerks me back in such a hard and fast motion I can't hold back the cry as something (probably a bone tip) tears at my insides. I just hope I don't get internal bleeding.

He pulls me to the window. I strain backwards the whole way, but my lips are in a tight line. No matter what he does to me, I won't let him get one word out of me.

In a movement so fast I don't even see it coming, he whirls around and yanks me forward. I stumble and my shins hit the base of the window as I pitch forward. An involuntary scream rips itself from my throat as I feel myself plummeting.

Suddenly, I'm jerked to a stop and I feel my world spin around as I'm set facing upwards again. I open my eyes and find myself dangling over the alley out of the window the Hawkeye holding onto the collar of my army jacket. With a snarl, I latch into his wrist with both my hands. If he lets me go, he's coming with me.

"Have you rethought my offer?" he asks in a teasing tone.

"No!" I spit out.

"You really have no other choice," he reasons.

"Yes I do! I'll just hang here until you drop me, and if you do than I'll pull you with me and if you don't, then I'll sneak away like I always do."

His expression softens just the littlest bit, "I admire your courage. That is why I chose you. Not many people have it, and when I see talent I don't let it go to waste."

"Talent? Talent for what?" I ask, for the first time a little fear tints my tone.

"Talent to be an assassin, Keira. You have talent, and lots of it, and I won't let it all go to waste."

I feel nauseous. This is way worse than I thought. "But—but I can't kill people! I couldn't do it!"

"It's no different than those aliens you shot," he points out.

"Yes it is! It's very much different! I would never kill a _human being_. I don't even know how to fight!"

"There is no difference between those monsters you killed and the ones you would help take down. They are monsters and the world is better without them.—"

"There is always a fine line, and big agencies seem to always step over it. What might be considered a threat to them might be a person who is scared and has no idea what is going on. But what does the agency do? Send orders to have them terminated. It's always the same."

"I used to think that way too, Keira. I used to think that I was better off on my own, but it's not true."

I realize there is no way I'm going to convince him otherwise, so I stop trying. "I won't go Hawkeye, ever," I whisper fiercely.

I see his eyes harden and I know he won't let me go. To my surprise, he starts to draw me back in to the building. It is then that I realize how strong he must be in order to be able to hold me out over the alley that long.

All my thoughts are cut off when his fist slams into my nose. I hear a sickening crunch and his grip on my collar releases. I slump to the floor, blackness overtaking my vision and the last thing I hear is, "S.H.I.E.L.D., I need an extraction carrier immediately."


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N.** Here's chapter five :) I'm burning through these! I'm still in need of a cover people :) Any ideas are welcome...

Sooo, Keira's file was in the deceased, she obviously has issues, a old, mysterious injury, and now she is S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters! Wow! Anyways, enjoy!

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**Chapter 5**

**Hawkeye's P.O.V.**

I stand in the corner of the hospital room, watching the rush of activity. It isn't the first time, nor the last I suspect, that nurses and doctors will be in a flurry over my day's work. No one has noticed me enough to give me crap about being here and the ones that have noticed don't give a damn. Being a field agent/assassin does give you special privileges.

From the conversation I'm picking up, she has a broken nose, her burn, and one broken rib. Everything _should_ be fine if she is careful, but if not, she would be in danger of puncturing her lung. But something else intrigues me. She seems to have some sort of old injury in her knee that they found through CAT-scans and x-rays. She apparently took a tumble at one point and tore her A.C.L, M.C.L, and cleanly broke her tibia. It seemingly wasn't treated (understandably since this happened after she "died") so the muscles were still healing as much as possible, but the bone had already healed wrong. It had not been set correctly, thus the wrong healing.

On impulse, I turn heel and leave the room with Keira knocked out and covered in tubes and wires and doctors. I head back to my cell like quarters through the maze of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier. I smile a little grimly to myself, _at least Keira can't escape THIS facility if she tries._

I enter my room and grab the file sitting on the dresser. It's Keira's file. I flip it open, looking for any clues to the injury. I scan over school, she got straight A's even when she was young. That catches my eye as well. She was homeschooled and she skipped a grade, obviously smart. Then I look to extracurricular activities. She is apparently very musical. She took vocals, piano, violin, and flute, and was always the best at each one. She danced as well. I thought over, no, no that wouldn't give such a big injury, so I keep reading.

_Aha! Here it is!_ I think. She did gymnastics since age three. She must have kept going with it even after her alleged "death." From the information here she was obviously one of the best, as she was in everything. It looked like a bright future.

Not knowing is what peeves me. I know her actions, but I don't know her motives, which are even more important than the actions themselves. I remember her words earlier, "_They think they know you by looking at a piece of paper that has your name on it."_

The woman's got a point.

"Deep in thought Barton?" a feminine voice slices through my thoughts. "You didn't even hear me walk in."

My head jerks up and I see Natasha leaning against my doorpost. A wry smile tugs at my lips. "I got a lot on my mind."

"So I heard. Word is around here you took a girl under your wing. Everyone knows it was you because she came completely bashed up."

Another wry grin appears. Natasha had been on a mission for the past month or so, explaining her absence. She never stopped working, not even after she saved the world. Personally, I think, she did it to pay her debt to S.H.I.E.L.D. (and me), but I also think she had paid it a long time ago.

"The kid's got talent. If we can get her on board is a whole other matter," I muttered, running my hands through my hair frustrated.

Natasha takes a seat next to me and pulls the file from my hands. Her hazel eyes dart over it as she takes it all in. I know what she is doing without having to ask. She is taking in all the facts and turning them over in her head, reconstructing this girl's whole life from the moment she was born. Natasha is using her interrogation skills to get inside the girl's head and understand what happened to her.

"She is an overachiever. She got straight A's and was skipped ahead of her grade, not to mention she was homeschooled and all testing scores show how much smarter those are. Didn't have any criminal record, not even so much as a mark at school. This is a completely perfect record. It says here she was aspiring to be a Marine, but she loves dance, art, and music as well. She had a perfect record, but now she is on the Most Wanted list. She threw herself into her sport, gymnastics, yet she developed all parts of her life. For one semester it says she wanted to be a Marine, and then the next it says she wanted to be an actress, and then it flips again. This girl is a living contradiction. She's at war with herself. It almost seems—"

Natasha pauses and does a double take at the page she flipped to. I wait, but when she doesn't make any effort to move, I speak. "Hey Nat, what's up?"

She looked up and pointed to the page. I look over her shoulder and see it is medical records. "Did you know she was the subject of a failed abortion procedure?"

"What? How did I miss that?"

"Clint, you were never the best with Intel you know," she remarks dryly. Before I could make some snide remark she continues. "That would explain it though. She doesn't feel like she has a place in the world. She's always shifting, yet she wants to settle down and live a normal life. She wants to feel accepted and feels that this will happen if she applies herself to everything and anything, and then by becoming the best at that. She wants to fit in with society, but she does not want to lose her individuality."

"So basically you are telling me that she wasn't hugged enough as a kid?" I ask sarcastically. Natasha looks at me out of the corner of her eye with the classic Black Widow look. I smirk in response. She does seem to hit the nail on the head though because now all the puzzles pieces fall into place. Keira no longer seems to be such a mystery under this light. Natasha raises her eyes to mine and in a split second we know what the other is thinking and we jump up at the same time without another word.

We both walk through all the corridors until we get to Keira's hospital room. We enter without bothering to knock or check if there are doctors busy inside. We walk in and the room is completely silent save for the _beep, beep _of the heart monitor and Keira's steady breathing. We both pause in the doorway. Keira is still out, but asleep she looks so much more vulnerable. Her brunette hair is scattered about the pillow like a dark cloud, her ivory skin is intensified in its paleness by the starkness of the room while the dark circles under her eyes look like bruises in the unforgiving light.

Natasha crosses her hands over her chest and plants her feet a little apart. "You've got to be kidding Barton."

I swing around defensively, "What?"

"She's a complete kid! What were you thinking?" Natasha hisses.

"You, of all people Nat, should know that appearances can be _deceiving,_" I replied with a slight grin.

"In all my covers and missions, all my aliases had one thing in common. They all had the Black Widow bad ass. This girl," she waves to Keira, "looks and probably is innocent enough to charm the birds right out of the trees. Does she even know how to fight?"

I let my silence speak for me. I cross my hands over my chest, staring at her with hard eyes. She literally throws her hands in the air, shaking her red curls with a classic eye roll before walking to Keira's bedside.

Nat looks down at Keira, studying her thoroughly. Gingerly, Nat picks up Keira's fingers and turns them over, studying them from all angles before speaking up.

"She has camouflage painted nails. That's a first. It fits in with her personality though. Her index, middle finger, and ring finger were all broken, approximately at the same time about two years ago. She has old calluses. They haven't been up to the same beating they were a while ago, but they were so used that they still haven't fully gone away. That must have been when she stopped her sport." Nat dropped Keira's hand back down on the bed. A look of slight pity crosses her face as she stands there, looking down at the kid. I feel pity too, but after all, I did bring her to a better place. Keira was on the streets. She was always in danger. Here, she is safe from _that_ kind of harm at least.

I step into the shadows of the room and both of is wait patiently, waiting for the kid to wake up.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I'm knocked out again. I hate this feeling. I don't know what anyone is doing to my body, and it oppresses me. I fight with all my will against it, trying to rise from the dark oblivion, but I will not come to the surface until the drugs decide my time down here is done, so I wait in what seems to be no time.

Finally, as before, my senses gradually return. I register pain on all parts of my body. Slowly, my eyes flicker open. I find myself staring at a stark, white room and a woman with striking red, curly short hair and dramatic features. I blink a couple of times and stare blankly at her. She is watching me with a calculating look, as if waiting for me to realize something and waiting to see what my reaction is. I'm about to open my mouth and croak out something about water, when it hits me.

Hawkeye found me.

_Oh shit!_

I jump into action before even realizing it. Where has he brought me? What am I doing here? I need to get out!

I feel my muscle jerk me upright and they all scream in pain. The woman lunges at me, but I twist away and fall off the bed with a painful _oooff._ I push off my hands and onto my knees. The bed is separating the woman and me, but I feel, or rather sense, something to my back. I jump up and swing around to find myself face to face with Hawkeye who is sauntering out of the shadows with the most infuriating smirk on his face. I let out a hoarse shriek that has irony mixed with irritation and fear somewhere inside of it.

I'm tired. _So_ tired. I know that even if I do get it out of this hell hole room than I'm probably in a secure location that I wouldn't make it ten steps out of. I'll die trying to get out of here anyways, so why not grasp at straws in the process? I fully intend on _not_ living through this, unless the most remote chance comes along, but I doubt it. My limbs feel like lead, but I react like lightening. His hand shoots out to encase my wrist, but I jump backwards, tripping over my own feet in the process. I fall flat on my butt, wincing as I can imagine the bruise forming on my tailbone. The woman attacks me as she swings around the bed. I'm cornered. Hawkeye is on my left and this woman is coming at me on my right. I know I stand very little, ok NO chance against either one, but I am as good as gone with both of them on me. Also, that does not give me the chance to achieve my plan of suicide. My eyes dart around and I see a gap. It is so slim that I probably won't make it, but it's worth a shot. I act as if to lunge at the woman and I see her brace herself, but at the last second I switch directions and roll to the side, lashing out with my foot as I do so. I catch her heavily in the ankle. My ears have the satisfaction of hearing her grunt in pain, but she doesn't fall. She does, however, pause giving me enough time to spring to my feet and dash for the door. Hawkeye is still on the other side of the bed and the woman is in hot pursuit. Just as I'm about to dash by the counter, a syringe sitting on it catches my eye.

Perfect.

My fingers close around it as I spring past, not pausing a moment. I'm not even sure if the two assassins behind me saw the movement. _Don't get cocky Keira, keep a cool head. This is far from over. It's safest to assume they did see and they know your next move. It is safest to be unpredictable,_ I think to myself. I hope that if they did see the quick flitch, they label it as a probable weapon, which it also is, but not a suicide tool. I yank open the door and just slide out as the woman's hand grasps at my hospital gown.

I find myself in a hallway with about five people up and down it. Not a lot, but this doesn't seem to be the most populated area. I'm betting that this place is _teeming _with people, or enemies as I should call them. I take off to my right, my bare feet pounding on the tile. I hear shouts as the two assassins take off after me. The people in the hallway look at us with mild surprise, but none make to snatch me, yet. I'm sure they will as soon as they grasp the situation. I know for a fact that I can't out run Hawkeye, last time it only worked because of my agility, and I have no idea about the woman, but I'm betting that in my prime I could at keep pace with her, if not strain her the tiniest bit, but I'm far from my prime. I see a corridor on my left, and I switch gears, digging my heels in and switching directions, scrabbling at the wall for support. I gain my footing and take off again.

Suddenly, something just trips my back foot and I go plummeting on the hard floor. I struggle to rise, but something, I'm guessing a fist, hits me in across the face. I pull myself up, and gather my last bit of ebbing strength and slash the syringe at the artery in my leg. Something grabs my wrist, and I fight it with sobs ripping themselves from my throat. I feel myself sinking back into oblivion and the last thing I hear is the woman panting and saying, "Barton, I will never, _ever_ doubt you again."

I can just imagine Hawkeye's, or Barton's, smug smile as I black out.


	6. Chapter 6

So, my readers, here is chapter six. I would just like to remind everyone that yes, Clint does come across as a sadistic jerk, but this is also coming from Keira's perspective, meaning she hates him, so no matter what, he's going to come off like that... If that makes sense... She keeps thinking they are going to hurt her, but that was never really Clint's (or S.H.I.E.L.D.'s) intention, and right now she is only hurt from her own stubbornness. Although it is admirable, she is stubborn to a fault, literally. Sooo, just keep that in mind for this next chapter!

Oh, and that is not the official cover, but that is just a pic of what Keira looks like...

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**Chapter 6**

Oblivion, _again._ If this is going to become a regular thing with me, I might go insane. This oblivion is worse though. I can feel whatever they are doing to me, and I know I don't like it. I start to resurface and find myself staring at the blinding, sterile, hospital lights above me. From the hard slab of steel that I'm lying on, I know that I'm on the operating table. I probably screwed up some injury again with my outburst, but I pray that they can't save me. This is oddly familiar. The last time I was on an operating table…

_Don't go the Keira,_ I warn myself.

They notice that I'm awake and I feel some cold liquid being shot into my arm while they speak supposedly soothing words that make no sense. Of course I'm not ok, like they keep saying. I'm on a damn operating table for crying out loud! And I'm not stupid either. They probably think I'm mentally disoriented (a nice way to say crazy) and suicidal, but I don't care. Maybe, if I act crazy enough, they'll think I'm too hopeless for any job they had in mind, especially an assassin.

I keep resurfacing about five times, each time screaming at the top of my lunges in pain. Whatever they are doing hurts like hell all over my body. I feel like all my nerves are in a searing fire. I scream, even when I'm unconscious. I know because even in the darkness that overcomes me, the only sound is that of my own anguish.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the pain eases completely, leaving calm after the storm in its wake. I finally slip away and lose myself in the drugs.

Once again, I sense the all too familiar feeling of resurfacing from the drugs. My senses return and I slowly allow my eyes to flicker open. I know where I am this time and am not nearly as disoriented, though I feel remarkably tired. I'm not ready to face my fate just yet.

_Just a little bit longer, please! Just a little longer,_ I beg in my mind to no one in particular. I feel, or rather a sense, someone staring at me, forcing me to reluctantly open my eyes, which I shut again almost immediately with a groan. Everything in my body hurts excruciatingly.

"Kid, you're going to be ok," a voice says next to me. I don't even have to think before knowing who it is. It's that woman from earlier.

My eyes fly open and I jerk forward, trying to get away like last time, this time it turns out a lot more painful. I band across my chest jolts me to a painful stop and I fall back, groaning. I just lie there, trying to get my breath back through my constricted lungs and fighting off the tears that swell in my eye from the pain in my abdomen. I don't remember it last time I woke up officially, so maybe that was what they were working on. Either way, all I know is it hurts like hell.

I instinctively curl up on myself to relive the pain, but I find something resisting at my ankles. Making the huge effort of raising my head, I check to see what is restraining me and find myself shackled to a hospital bed. I blink, trying to blink this situation away, but it stays. I must look pretty comical just staring and blinking, but I don't see anything funny about it. I just stare dumbfounded. Restraint bands are around my ankles, right below my chest, and on my wrists. I'm in a skimpy hospital gown that makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. I don't like it one bit.

Then my instincts kick in.

I pull everything in, making a desperate attempt to get out of my bonds. I can feel the panic well in my throat that is a shriek, making its way from my chest to my throat and slowly to my vocal cords. I try to suppress it, but I know the longer I try to bigger it gets. I can feel it turning into a scream.

The heart monitor beeps erratically, showing the racing pace of my heart as it spikes in sheer panic. I struggle, yank, and wrench viciously at my bonds causing every wound I have to scream in objection.

The woman next to me leans forward and places a decisive hand on my forearm. I freeze, pulling as far away from her as I can and staring into her calm, greenish hazel eyes with my own panic stricken ones. I recoil at her touch and yank my arm as far away as the bonds allow, trying to gathering my knees up as well and lean as far away as the bond around my ribs will permit as well.

"Keira, we aren't here to hurt you," she says reasonably. I don't relax one bit. Words don't fool me anymore. "Relax, no one is going to hurt you," she tries again. My heart rate doesn't slow down in the slightest. Her tone becomes firmer, "Keira, if you don't calm down I'll have to call the nurses back in. They _will_ sedate you."

If anything, that is probably the only thing that would calm me down currently. At least this woman doesn't spend too much time on the wishy-washy 'trust us' stuff. I stiffly relax (if that makes sense) and she withdraws her arm. I stare at her in the corner of my eye warily.

"You really expect me to believe you when you say they won't hurt me? That's all they've been doing since I got here," I snort.

"Yeah, well that is mostly your fault," she counters. I smirk slightly in agreement. It's true. If I hadn't run from Barton than he would most likely have not broken my nose, if I hadn't tried to get away and kill myself than I most likely would not have reopened some injury and ended up in handcuffs.

"Yeah, well… You would've done the same thing," I say with a nonchalant shrug. A grim smile tugs at her lips.

"Would I really? It doesn't seem like the best decision from watching you."

"You would do it because there is nothing else you _can_ do," I respond with more gravity, meeting her eyes boldly. She goes quiet and I let myself show a small smug smile of victory. I turn my attention back to my bonds, studying them and trying to figure out how to get out of them. They are simply buckles that go around my wrists and are padded so they don't chafe. I twist my fingers at an odd angle, trying to reach the buckle. Luckily, my fingers are dexterous and I'm just able to touch the buckle, but that is it. The woman is watching my attempts and doing nothing to stop, or help, me.

"So what's wrong with me?" I ask indifferently as I proceed with my doings.

"Of course, there was the burn on your leg. Then Barton broke your nose and a rib. It wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't started running. They weren't able to set it by that time, so you're movement caused your lung to nearly collapse. Luckily I knocked you out in time. You came dangerously close though," she warns. I don't meet her eyes and continue with my efforts to unbuckle myself. I wince slightly as I move at an odd angle to get a chance at a better grip. I know she is waiting for an answer.

"Yeah well, I wish I had only been so lucky," I mumble, half hoping she wouldn't hear. Of course life wouldn't be that convenient. A voice slices like ice down my spine. It takes the slightest moment to realize it isn't the woman's voice. My head jerks up and I see a shadow of a man leaning in a casual position in the corner of the room.

"Is our company so repulsive that you would kill yourself, Keira?" Barton asks. I feel my rigid muscles tense beyond belief as he steps out of the shadows and closer to me. He makes his way to my bedside with that sure stride of his. I don't turn to look at him, but stare straight ahead, my chest heaving, jaw flexed, and restraints creaking as I throw all my strength into breaking them but not making any pronounced movements as I do it. In the corner of my eye I see him smirk and I feel my blood boil.

Then, he actually has the audacity to sit next to me.

_Bastard! You'll be dead as soon as I get out of these restraints_, I hiss at him in my mind.

The bed dips under his weight and my eyes widen a little in something mixed between fear and anger, more intense than anger, it is closer to hate.

"Go ahead, I'd like to hear what you think of me," he laughs.

"I'm not even giving you the crap of thinking about you," I hiss.

"I can just hear the cussing out you're giving me in your head," he laughs again.

"Screw you Barton! What do you want from me?" I almost shout.

"I thought I made that quite clear," he responds, his former joking mood completely gone. Instead, a cold, stone faced man who gives me shivers and is my capture stands in his place. For once, I find no words and sit speechless, staring into his eyes. I've had years of practice at covering my emotions, so I mask my fear in my face, but I know that if he looks deep enough into my eyes he will see it. I cannot look away though. If I do, it would be a sure sign to anyone of what my emotions are.

Suddenly, his bristling demeanor relaxes and his trademark smirk returns to his face. I force myself to jerkily relax as well. I honestly don't know what happens next. Maybe they'll torture me, or maybe they'll abandon me, torturing me indirectly with the denial of food and water and medical treatment.

_Just let them try!_ I shouted in my head. _I would never accept treatment from these scumbags._

I decide to just come out with it and ask. "So Barton, what happens next?"

"Next I'm supposed to convince you to work for us by means of conversation," he responds like he's reading off a manual.

"Not by means of torture?" I mumble.

"Not yet," he says with a chilling smile. I fall quiet, waiting for him to start talking, but he doesn't. I turn my head away, staring fixedly at the floor. Still nothing. The silence intensifies, becoming so oppressive I can't handle it anymore. I snap my head up and find Barton still staring at me with an evaluating look.

"Why aren't you talking?" I accuse.

"Because you already know what I'll say and it won't work," he replies, his face not unchanging.

"So like I said, what happens now?" I press.

He stood up and my eyes followed him. He paused, staring down at me. "Now we move to step two."

He headed for the door and the woman, who I had completely forgotten about, followed him.

"What is step two?" I yelled after them. Barton paused in the doorway.

"We wait."

And then he walked out and the door shut with a despondent click. I slump down, staring at the buckles around my body.


	7. Chapter 7

A.N. Hello again! I just wrote this out today and I'm working on chapter eight... Don't worry, Jackson will come back into the picture soon :)

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**Chapter seven**

I've spent weeks in this stupid hospital room. Hawkeye wasn't kidding when he meant to wait. I don't know if he means to wait until I break, or until he thinks I'm close enough that he can push me over the edge. At first I was sure I could wait it out, I mean, I was willing to kill myself, this should be a piece of cake right? But that's just the thing, I was willing to take action, that's what I'm built for, but waiting is killing me slowly and painfully.

I'm also healing, supposedly. It's been about six weeks in here. The only contact with the outside world that I get is when the nurses and docs come in for checkups and food. My hospital room has no windows with only a tiny side door to a bathroom. Other than the medical visits and the dialing dropping off of my rations and injections of medication, I'm left completely to my own devices. I feel like a lab rat. I try talking to the nurses, but they must be forbidden from talking to me because they never answer and the doctors only ask questions about how I feel in pain level.

After about two days of the restraints, I had finally snuck out of them, but my fingers were bloody and my wrists were bruised. The nurses bandaged them, but did nothing to put me back into the restraints. I wandered around the room, thankful to be able to walk. I had inspected every nook and cranny, trying to find a way out, but nothing came. The room had no windows and I knew trying to burrow out would be useless. That only worked in dungeons. I thought about attacking the nurses when they came since I knew their schedule, but dismissed the thought knowing that I was too weak until fully healed.

The second thing I did was disable the security cameras. Of course, as soon as they were down a team of agents came in, knocked me out, fixed the cameras, put me back in restraints, and left.

As soon as I woke up, I worked on the bonds, getting out of them in only an hour that time. Of course, I realized that I was being monitored for potential suicide attempts most likely, so I decided to test my theory. There was literally nothing in the room to use, so I went into the bathroom, broke the glass mirror with a punch that broke my knuckles and tried to slit my wrists. Just as I'd predicted, a team of agents came in, knocked me out, took all the glass away along with anything else they thought was breakable and sharp, put me in restraints, and left.

Those restraints were worse. They weren't just the buckles, but those were padded steel ones without as much as a key lock. I spent days trying to get out of them till I broke down screaming and banging my head on the table. Paramedics rushed in as I blacked out and I felt them doing things to me, but I didn't care.

The next few days were hell. I was in and out of consciousness just like before, and when I woke the docs and nurses were all swarming inside my hospital room. Finally though, I fully woke up and only a couple nurses remained. I didn't speak, but they did to me for the first time. They said I was going to be ok and so on and so forth, but I ignored them.

I stopped eating. No matter what they brought me, I would not eat. I just stared straight ahead with glazed eyes. Different docs came, all checking for clues as to my sudden lack of appetite. They put me through x-rays and CAT scans and just about every test on the universe, but nothing worked. I was then plugged into an IV and fed through my arm, but it take more than a needle pumping protein into one's blood system to keep them alive. I gave up. I wouldn't sleep, eat, or respond to anyone.

That is, until Barton came. I think over that visit, turning it over in my mind, dissecting it, studying it, analyzing it from every possible angle.

_"I hear you've been busy Keira," he remarked, sitting on a chair next to my bed and crossing his arms over his chest, leaning and tipping the chair backwards. He studies me for a moment, and I wait for his appraisal even though I could care less. For some reason, all the fear of him has vanished. "You look like hell," he commented finally._

_ "I wouldn't know, they took away my mirror," I mumbled, my lips twitching, threatening to spread in a bitter smile._

_ "How about that?" he asked in mock sincerity and horror. _

_ "Don't over play it Barton," I snapped, keeping my eyes down._

_ He just laughed and leaned forward, letting his chair fall back to the floor. "Look at me Keira," he said softly. I didn't respond. It's my specialty. He is the only person that has gotten the most out of me. "Keira," he said, his voice sharper, "look at me, now!"_

_ With a sigh, I resignedly turned my eyes towards him and found him leaning forward intently, demanding my attention. "Yes?" I asked, my voice hoarse from both screaming and disuse._

_ He just studied my face for a moment before leaning back again and running his fingers through his hair in a jerky, frustrated motion. "Hell Keira, I didn't mean for this to get so big," he said with almost a worried tone._

_ I jerked sharply towards him. I'm sorry, what? Did I just hear him right?_

_ "What do you mean, Barton?" I asked more sharply than I intended to._

_ "I mean I knew you were stubborn, but I honestly didn't think you would give up."_

_ "Give up on what?" but I already know the answer._

_ "ON LIFE, Keira!" He almost shouted._

_ "I told you I would," I slurred, turning my dull eyes to the floor again. _

_ "Yeah, well, you should know how many times I've heard that and how many times people actually kept their word," he said with a mirthless huff of laughter as he stood up and faced away from me._

_ "Really? How many?" I slurred again, my voice dull and lifeless with drugs, painkillers, and medications._

_ "None," he said with another mirthless laugh. "I've never seen anyone have so much control over their self. It is human nature to fight for life, and from what I've seen, it is nearly impossible to have so much control that you can restrain from keeping yourselves alive. It's like trying to hold your breath till you die. Nearly impossible."_

_ "Could you do it?" I questioned. I truly was curious._

_ "I don't know. I suppose if it came down to it, yes. But only if I was… if I had absolutely no choice," he spoke that last part as if he was talking to himself._

_ "Are you saying I have a choice?" I asked mockingly with a bitter tone._

_ He swung around to me, his eyes determined, "Yes!"_

_ "What? Barton! I was kidding," I jumped._

_ "And I wasn't. I would kill myself if I didn't have any other choice, but if I was in your position I wouldn't. Keira, you're throwing your life away too quickly! You're just acting out of spite. You don't even fully understand what we're offering you," he ground out, frustration sharpening his voice._

_ I didn't argue but kept a sullen silence. I'd found that that is the best way to contradict someone. If you start an argument, it only shows that you are trying to convince yourself, especially if you know you will never convince them. He couldn't understand. He wouldn't understand, and I sure as heck wasn't going to tell him anything. "Look Barton," I started with a sigh, "I told you I wasn't going to become part of your stupid organization. I got out of the system for a reason and you dragged me back into it. You said you would send me to juvei if I didn't comply, well I'm sure as hell not complying, so why am I not in behind bars? Let me guess, I know too much. Since you dragged me here you can't get rid of me, thus you need me to join you. That leaves only one option," I turned my eyes resolutely forward, "Death."_

_ "Jesus Keira! I brought you here to offer you a new life and it all blows up in my face," he spat. "If I was—"_

_ "Why _did_ you bring me here? I fulfill you quota for the month? I didn't ask to come! I never—"_

_ "You're just being stubborn," he said softly. I stopped, reluctantly listening to his glib words. "Why not give it a try? It can't be much worse than what you were doing before, could it?" he reasoned. I turned away angry with myself for even considering his words, for that I was, and very seriously. They made perfect sense, and that scared me. With four weeks to let my temper cool off (I have all the tick marks scratched on the wall, despite my restraints. I was close enough to the wall to use my toenail. It makes me look like I'm in a lunatic asylum), I feel very inclined to follow his suggestions. What am I going to do? Sit here till I rot of old age? Until after Barton dies? For sixty years? Even after the organization is shut down? Ha, like that would ever happen. But I realize that they are keeping me alive._

_ Then I think why I have been so stubborn and my face hardens. I know Barton must have seen the look of contemplation of my face, because when my own face hardens back into its usual mask, I see his expression visibly fall into its own stubborn mask again._

_ "Barton, I don't want to be part of an agency. I don't want to be a pawn. I don't want to be used and tossed aside like an old shoe. I don't want to be made to do things I'll regret," I nearly whispered, repeating the same words I have since I met him._

_ "It's about the foster system, I know it is" Barton answered, his blue eyes boring intensely into mine as his were narrowed slightly in concentration._

_ "This whole thing is being recorded. It could be being broadcasted in front of this whole facility and on CNN news for all I know," I snorted, clearly showing I wasn't going to talk. _

_ He moved with swiftness that was hard for the eye to follow. He whipped a knife out of his belt and without even so much as pausing for a moment, threw it at the security camera, effectively slicing through the wire and cutting the feed._

_ He then placed a hand up to his ear, obviously pressing some com line, "Stand down, we're good."_

_ "Now," he said, turning to me, resuming his seat and leaning intensely towards me, "You know we aren't being watched, so go ahead."_

_ "I'm not telling you crap!" I spat, my contempt displayed._

_ "I thought your misgivings were that this conversation wouldn't be private," he said with mild surprise that I knew was fake. _

_ "I said that for all I knew it wouldn't be private," I countered._

_ "Think over this carefully, Keira. Now is possibly the first and last time you'll have this opportunity," he warns._

_ "To do what? To spill my life out into your waiting hands? I don't think so," I scorned._

_ "This is practically immunity. Anything you say now will not be held against you since—"_

_ "Meaning you won't send me to juvie? Ha! That was an empty threat from the beginning, Barton," I said contemptuously. "Anyways, you know enough about me, let's see what your guess is," I challenged._

_ "Fine, you were born and raised in Kansas. You were homeschooled, got straight A's, did dance, piano, flute, voice, and gymnastics. You excelled in each one beyond expectations. You were skipped ahead in school, showing how dedicated you were. You had a perfect record, not a single mark off. Your family life, however," here he grins ruefully, "was a completely different story. Your mother had a one-night-stand. She didn't even know the guy. You were born and your father, of course, was gone after the one night. Your mother figured a way to get a degree and have a kid and was able to provide for both of you."_

_ He paused and leaned forward, "now we get to the juicy stuff. Your mother had a failed abortion. She tried to abort you, but you survived. She must have realized her mistake of trying to kill her baby and immediately took you in. All those straight A's, all those perfect scores, all those perfect dance routines, all those perfect tumbling passes, all those flawless solos were to make up for what you thought you owed. You wanted to prove that you were worthy to be in the world, whether this was conscious or not is a different matter. You were, and are, a contradiction. You loved hard core sports, yet enjoyed the fine arts. You wanted to be an artist, than a Marine. You had a flawless school record, let alone criminal record, but now you are on the Most Wanted list for all your theft."_

_ "Well, after your mother died, the court was NOT going to give you over to your deadbeat father who couldn't even take care of himself, and you knew you couldn't go into foster care, not that I blame you. They tell you that you belong to the state. You are their ward. You feel like you lose your identity. You couldn't let that happen, especially with your past. You ran. You took off, got in touch with some pros by my guess, and faked your death. You were smart though," he added, with a touch of degrading approval, "for being only thirteen years old. After that, you got into crime, and became well versed in the ways of the New York street. But what I've been wondering is how you got that injury," he said, brushing my knee making me repulse back as far back as possible. I knew he meant to do that on purpose, knowing it would only remind me of how vulnerable I was._

_ "You're the genius, you figure it out," I snapped. I was angry and scared. It was frightening how much he had found out. All of it was true. Every single detail. His words pulled up images of my past that I would much rather have forgotten. They reminded me of all those nights, huddled in a black alley with a gnawing stomach, then people closing in, the smell of beer…_

_ I shook my head to clear the image, gritting my teeth angrily. Barton's calloused hand came down on my forearm. I jerked back, baring my teeth, but part of me was grateful. His warm, rough hand brought me back to the present. I wasn't going to let him see that for worlds though. _

_ He must have seen the effect his words had on me, and gave me a half-hearted smile that was laced with… empathy. This stopped me in my tracks. He didn't withdraw his hand, and I stopped fighting it. He leaned forward so his intense, blue-green eyes were inches from my face. "Keira, I know. I know what you think of us. I know what it is like to have a history like that. I don't have a fairy tale past either. I used to think exactly like you do, but it's not true. You would be helping people. You would save people from the past you have. Isn't that what you want? My parents were killed, I ran away from the foster care, I know what it is like to believe that big agencies are cruel, but trust me," a grin tugged his lips, "S.H.I.E.L.D. fits none of those quotas."_

_ I didn't respond. I was thinking over his words. I was angry. He was purposefully manipulating me, hitting me where it hurts, but I couldn't resist his words. They were like a balm on a burn. I hated it, but its soothing caress was so addicting that I couldn't resist if I tried. _

_ "What do you want from me?" I asked in a whisper._

_ He didn't move away. "Just trust me," he whispered._

_ "How can I do that?" I whispered hopelessly. I truly didn't know. It had been forever since I had trusted anyone._

_ "Don't think, just do," he responded. I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to push him away (figuratively since I was still in restraints) and trying to block out his demanding eyes, trying to hide from them. _

_ Finally, I opened them. "I don't trust you. I don't trust anybody. But," I added quickly as his expression darkened, "I will try your way. I don't have much of another choice," I laughed bitterly. _

_ He straightened, smiling, "good." He rose as if to leave. That was it? What happens next? Where was he going?_

_ "Hey!" I called after him. He paused and looked down at me. "What happens next?"_

_ "Next, you stop trying to kill yourself and get better," he replied. He hit the button for the nurse who burst in with barely a hesitation causing me to think she had been waiting right outside the door. "Get her out of these restraints, give her some food and as soon as she is nourished enough, get her out of the ICU," he directed._

_ The nurse just stared in wonder before nodding wordlessly. _

* * *

That was about a week ago. I lie on my bed with my knees curled up to my chest. I'm out of the ICU, just like Barton requested, and it is an immense relief. I've been eating everything they give me and the doctors are baffled. Of course, my little talk with Barton was off the record, but I'll bet all my money that they would give anything to hear what went on inside that room. I still don't trust Barton, or anyone here at S.H.I.E.L.D., and yes, my pride is still nagging at me, accusing me of giving in and being weak, but I drown it out with the voice of reason. Ok, I'm starting to see that maybe I did act a little immaturely, running from Clint like that, but in my own defense, how I was I supposed to know that he wasn't going to hurt me? Sure, I know what you're going to say... "He was fighting with the AVENGERS! How could he be a villain?" "He said he wasn't trying to hurt you. You could've stayed just long enough to see if he was telling the truth or not."

And yes, all those are valid arguments, but like I told Hawkeye, I'm just _really_ stupid. But you know what they say, "it's better to be lucky than smart." I'm living proof of the truth of that statement.

I was moved into this room only this morning. I insisted I was able to walk, _not_ be wheeled around on a stretcher, and I put up such a fuss about it that they eventually just let me go in a wheelchair, which was still unacceptable by me, but it was the best compromise I could get.

I found out that those docs were right (imagine that?). I was so weak from those weeks of malnourishment that the ride in the wheelchair to this room drained me. Right now, I lie in the hospital bed, curled up in a protective ball and utterly exhausted. I think over the past. Does this mean that I'm a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. now? No. Definitely and absolutely not, but I've relented just the miniscule bit to trust Barton and see where it take me. Once I'm healed and recuperated I'll see how things play out. Until then, I wait.

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A.N. Soo, is Keira relenting, or not? Is she starting to trust Barton? Is Barton changing? Or is _he_ just trusting _her_ more? It's like a love-hate relationship... He just opened himself up to her in a way I'm sure he doesn't to anyone, and she did so as well, though albeit reluctantly and he filled in most of the pieces, but she did all the same. What is she going to decide? I'd love to hear what you guys think :)


	8. Chapter 8

A.N. Sorry it took sooo long! Here is chapter eight finally! Mother's day, my birthday, and many other things got me distracted, soooo ya... Anyways, here you go!

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**Chapter Eight**

In the morning, my senses wake me up rather than my inner alarm clock. I feel my eyelids flutter open and I stare lazily, blinking at the ceiling for a moment. That was the best night of sleep I've had in quite a while. Of course, living with one eye over your shoulder doesn't give you much time to rest and I wasn't exactly on vacation in the ICU.

A sound to my right makes me jump sky high. I jerk upright, nearly crashing out of bed, only to fall back into the sheets with a groan of pain. The nurse who was tidying things up around my room is frozen, obviously just as scared of my reaction as I was of her.

"I'm sorry miss!" the nurse exclaims, finally jumping out of her terror stricken trance. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was just cleaning up around here. You're not to move for a while, doctor's orders. I'll go get your breakfast," the nurse hustles out, leaving me in the God forsaken hospital room.

I sit up slowly and gingerly, taking an overall assessment of my condition. My leg still throbs, my ribs and abdomen feel like they are on fire, my head feels like all the freakin' tinkering Christmas elves decided to take up residence in it, all the cuts and bruises (from glass, concrete, so on and so forth) are scabbed over now, and my nose is just a slight throb, but nothing more.

I stretch my arms up, yawning lazily and arching my back, hearing the satisfactory cracks and crunches as I work out all my kinks.

I feel antsy. I need to move. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, swaying them back and forth impatiently. I contemplate getting up, but decide against it since I'm not completely sure my legs would agree to hold my weight.

The nurse strolls back in, balancing a tray with the rations S.H.I.E.L.D. uses. I can't help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. It is a soppy, white, wet mush that has a resemblance to watery oatmeal. I don't even want to know what's inside of it, but my guess is their ultimate combo of minerals, carbs, and proteins needed for the patient. The nurse slides the tray onto my bedside table and is heading out the door when I stop her.

"Excuse me! I was wondering. Would you be able to find my old clothes for me? I don't feel very… comfortable in this hospital gown," I ask her in a tone that sounds more like I'm ordering her than asking.

"I'm sorry, but I must insist that you remain in your current attire for a while longer," she responded like she was talking to a five-year-old. I settle myself down for a long argument.

An hour later, I'm sitting on my bed once again, but this time in comfortable cargo pants and a singlet they were able to dig up for me since they had disposed of my torn up T-shirt. I was relieved to find they had kept my army jacket. It is for sentimental reasons now only, but it used to hold all my tools for thieving. Lock picks, small knives (that I never used to kill anyone with, only to jimmy locks), code crackers, bugs, spy cameras, and hacking devices were all stowed away in the pockets and strips inside of the jacket.

I sit, fiddling with my thumbs and having absolutely nothing to do. I sigh and shift, trying to find some position on this damn hospital bed that is comfortable, but I know it is an itch I can't scratch. I shift uncomfortably again, and then…_I just can't take this anymore_

I jerk up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to stand up, but right as I do this, the door to my hospital room slides open. I immediately raise my defenses, having been startled. Did they know I was going to move?

_Don't be ridiculous Keira. Keep it together,_ I caution mentally as I eye the person who steps through the door.

He has smoothed and gelled black hair that looks styled to perfection, showing obvious pride in his work and professionalism he brings to the office. His white lab coat labels him as a doctor and his name tag reads _Richer Harris_, _psychiatrist_.

_What?!_

They have sent a _shrink_ to evaluate me? No way in hell that's going to happen. I calm myself down and continue my diagnosis of the man. His face is sharp with high, defined cheek bones, a big, claw like nose, a large forehead, and almost nonexistent lips. All these would not come across as unhandsome though, if it weren't for his mean, cold, ice blue eyes. I quickly move on from them with a slight shudder. He is tall, about 6'3" and well-built with broad shoulders and chest.

Something else I do not like about him is the domineering presence he brings into the room. _Really Keira, domineering? How was Hawkeye any different?_ I snort mentally, but I know this is different. True, Hawkeye is a smug jerk in my opinion, but he didn't hurt me, at least not purposefully, _kind of_, but I instinctually feel I can trust him in an odd way. This man, however, screams to all my senses to run. _Don't do that Keira; you'll only make yourself look guilty for nothing._ But somehow, I honestly do not want to have a shrink worm all the secrets I have out of me, especially after all I have been through.

The man pauses on the threshold of the room. A sly smirk tugs at his face as he evaluates me, same as I evaluate him.

"Are you finished scrutinizing me, Miss Matheson?" he asks in a deep, frightening voice.

_You sound like a three year old, stop it Keira!_ I mentally berate.

I decide not to answer him. I don't want to even talk to him. The less he knows, the better. They really need new shrinks here if _this_ is their standard. He is honestly creepy. "I want to speak with Barton, now," I demand bluntly. I'm in no mood for games.

"Ah yes," Harris sighs as he pulls up a chair and takes a seat across from me, much too close for my liking, "the infamous Clint Barton. He was the one who brought you in, wasn't he?"

I don't answer Harris' question, but stare stonily at him. At least he gave me a valuable piece of information. I now know Barton's first name, Clint.

I'm painfully aware of my tight tank top that leaves my white, slim shoulders bare and exposed, only making me feel more vulnerable. My fingers move without my consent and close around the jacket on my left. I pull it on, grasping the hem of the bottom of the sleeves in fists and pulling it even more tightly around my shoulders.

Harris watches this action with unnerving, flickering blue eyes, and then scribbles something down on his clipboard. _You've got to be kidding me. That action gave something away to him? What did I do? What does he know? Keep it cool girl, don't let him get to your head._

"So why do you want to see Agent Barton?" he inquires.

"That is none of your business, shrink," I spit. The reason I want Barton is because I seriously do not want to talk to this man. Barton is the only person in this facility that I know, and truth to be told, he has been looking out for me, in a way. At least I have an indirect friend, I hope. Either way, Barton is my best bet.

"Does Agent Barton make you feel safe?" Harris presses. "That would be odd though, considering he used… forceful means to bring you here."

"Force is no stranger to me, shrink," I remark bitterly. I immediately regret it as he starts to scribble down on his clipboard. He angles it up so I cannot read it upside-down which I would normally do. _Screw this man_!

"So you were on the streets, Barton brought you in by force, and then you were suicidal, and yet you trust him now?"

"I never said I trusted him!" I snarl. He writes something down again. This is driving me insane.

"So what happened those ten minutes with Barton that changed your mind about everything?"

So I was right. They are all wondering what happened in that tiny hospital room for those ten minutes that were off record. My eyes flick to the door, hoping for the first time that Barton will come through it, but no such luck. It stays despairingly shut and shows no sign of sliding open for a chance at freedom. _Ya, remember how far you got last time Keira? Not a good idea_.

"I've already told you I'm not saying anything. I want Barton in here now—"

"What was it like, Keira, out in the streets, hmm? Was it hard? Did people abuse you?"

His words bring back memories, memories I would much rather forget. Suddenly, I'm not in the hospital room anymore. I'm thirteen years old again and in a dark alley. It stinks of beer and garbage, and the dark shapes I see are starting to close in. Are they coming after me? No, I know they aren't because I know how this nightmare goes, but I almost wish they were.

I let out a piercing shriek and throw my arms around my head, burying my face in my lap. All I remember from then on is screaming. Screaming for the doctors to get their hands off me, screaming for Barton, and most of all, screaming for help.


	9. Chapter 9

A.N. Here you go my lovely readers :) This is a REALLY long chapter, so I hope you enjoy :) Special thanks to Jo, this was written for you! haha.

Also, special thanks to: **electracait, Lollypops 101, Halfbloodpride, CrackYourRein911** for reviewing almost EVERY chapter :) Leave reviews and tell me what you think :)

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**Chapter Nine**

**Barton's P.O.V.**

I was on the bridge monitoring potential terrorist threats from the Middle East with Natasha when I got the call. Keira had a relapse. I ran through the corridors, pushing anyone who was stupid enough not to move out of my way. I knew she couldn't have just relapsed without any push and something set her off. I curse myself for not watching her more closely.

I burst into her hospital room to find a sickening sight greet my eyes. Keira is curled in a ball on the floor with about five nurses and two doctors trying to pin her down and knock her out with a syringe, but she is flailing her arms so violently that they are not able to get a clear shot at her vein.

I push the nurses aside and grab Keira's shoulders, holding them down to the cold, white tiles. I can tell from the deranged, glazed look in her eyes that she isn't in the present. She is seeing threats that don't exist.

"Keira! Keira, calm down!" I attempt to grab her attention. She lifts her tear stained face and wide, scared eyes to mine. I see the tracks of tears run down her cheeks and the pure fear in her expression. Her eyes slowly come into focus on my face and her struggling ceases.

"Barton?" she asks uncertainly.

"The one and only, kid," I whisper as I cease to pin her down rather than hold her. She clings to me, burying her face in my Kevlar vest like she did when during the New York invasion. She is oblivious to the outside world as she cries her heart out into my chest. I nod to the nurse with the syringe. Keira doesn't even respond when the nurse grabs her arm and sticks her with the needle.

I grab Keira's chin in-between my thumb and knuckle, focusing her eyes on me. "Listen kid, you're gonna be okay," I see her eyes start to glaze over as she begins to lose consciousness. "Do you trust me?" I ask.

She nods once before slumping unconscious in my arms. I let the docs pull her off me and I slowly stand up, watching them work on her lifeless body. Who knows how many times I've seen Keira knocked out, but this time she looks especially vulnerable. What's wrong with me? I never show emotion, and yet, she has brought more emotion out of me than ever before.

I turn away to leave the room when something catches my eye. I see a shadow of a man in the corner, and immediately I don't like him. Our eyes meet, and a malicious smile creeps over his features. I feel an odd sensation in my stomach. It feels like… _fear_, something I haven't experienced in a while. I feel like I know this man, but from where? Immediately I know why Keira had a relapse. The pain of seeing her so vulnerable is still fresh, and the fact that this man caused it makes my anger resurface. I'm about to take a step forward when a hand descends on my shoulder.

"Clint," Natasha says softly, yet forcefully. So much is behind that word. I can tell by her tone of voice. She is telling me to save it, to let it be. I don't even remember her in the room, but she must have followed me here.

Reluctantly, I back away, but not before I get the man's name from his tag. Hey, my code name is Hawkeye, right?

* * *

Later, I am in the computer room again. "Ryan, you are going to do this for me, or…"

The Geek is nervous, as usual. "Barton, I can't just give you access to all the data base of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s records!"

"What are you going to do? Go tell Fury again?" I ask threateningly.

"Now wait just a minute," he back peddles nervously as he pushes his glasses further up his nose, "I never said I wasn't going to let you. I just said it might not be a good idea."

"I just need one name. Go ahead and tell Fury, he won't care." It's true. I'm not the best at following orders, but I am one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best assassins, meaning I pretty much have free rein.

"Fine," Ryan swivels in his desk chair, his fingers poised to type over the keys, "what's the name?"

"Richer Harris," I respond. I watch as he types it in rapidly and the computer loads.

"Richer Harris, psychiatric doctor, joined S.H.I.E.L.D. two years ago. Hmm," Ryan squints at the screen.

"What?" I press.

"He is mostly used on prisoners, or suspects we have. He has a knack for getting into peoples' minds, making him one of our lead interrogators—"

"Interrogators?" I ask in astonishment. What was an interrogator doing interviewing Keira? She's not a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D. what-so-ever.

"Ya, he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. after working for the F.B.I. in Special Forces. It says he was trained as an _agent_, but then an injury caused him to go into medicine, or psychopathology."

"So he just switched carriers like that? This sounds fishy to me," I murmur quietly. My eyes do a quick scan of the room, assuring me that no one is listening to our conversation, when the slightest sound above me catches my attention. A small smile tugs my lips as I pretended to ignore it.

"Where are the records of his patients?"

Ryan taps a couple buttons and the records appear on the screen. "Nothing unusual about them, just the normal back-from-missions-assessments."

"What about the patients he rejected and accepted?" I question.

"Well, he's taken every patient we've given him," Ryan squints at the screen again, "except for three times." He pulls away uncertainly, "they were all you."

"What?"

"All the times he requested another patient was when you were put on his list," Ryan explains. I feel his owl eyes on me as I scan over the document. Sure enough, the Geek is right.

"What about patients he requested?"

"He never requested a patient… until one last week. Hey, that's the girl you had me trace!"

"Good work," I compliment before turning away to leave.

"No offense, Barton, but investigations aren't really your thing, so why are you taking an interest in this?" Ryan inquires. I swing back around to him.

"What?"

"You're an assassin, not an agent or an investigator. Why are you taking an interest in this? Or an even better question, what got you onto this man's scent?"

I pause for a moment before slapping the Geek on the shoulder. "Keep me posted if you come up with anything.

I saunter off, leaving Ryan confused and deprived of an answer. I walk quickly down the halls, very aware of someone following me, not from bellow as would be suspected, but above in the air vent.

I push the doors to the dark storage unit open where much of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s phase two equipment is stored, before quickly shimmying up a pole and leaping over the rail. I feel a slight vibration next to me as someone drops onto the metal catwalk.

"Didn't expect you to pick this place, Barton," Natasha comments.

"Security camera angles allow for us to talk in private, but you know that already." I turn towards her, "thanks for the heads up in the computer room."

She doesn't respond, but a hint of the lopsided tug of lips, which is the closest she gets to a smile, appears. "So, you are suspicious about Harris?"

"Something isn't right, Nat; you have to admit that."

"True, but you wouldn't be taking an interest in it if it weren't for Keira."

"You're point being?"

"You're getting emotionally attached, Clint. Why did you really bring her here?"

I answer her almost before she finishes her sentence. "I already told you why, Tasha. You saw her file, you _know_ why."

She moves forwards so we are closer. "Yes, yes I know why, and I don't think it's very wise."

"So what would you have me do?" I ask, looking down at her. "I brought Keira here, I put her in danger, and I can't leave her to fend for herself, not when she's this vulnerable."

"That's the point, Clint. Anyone could see how attached you are to her. What makes you think they are actually after her?"

I turn away from her with a scoff sound and grab the railing with both hands so hard that my knuckles turn white. "So what do you suggest? It's not the first time people have been after me."

"You brought her here for one purpose: Clint, to make her a weapon. She won't be vulnerable, or a liability to you, if you make her just that. Teach her everything you know, train her, mentor her, giver her something to strive for, and based on my limited knowledge of her personality, she'll accept the challenge with more than enough will power.

"She isn't fully healed, Nat," I respond, pushing off the railing and facing her with exasperation.

"So? She won't have _time_ to heal on missions. She's getting antsy, she needs something to do. Right now she's a sitting duck, but she doesn't have to be. Don't worry about the doctor's orders. You can override them and I'm sure she would be more than willing to," Natasha added with a quirked eyebrow.

"So when's the next stop?" I ask. Nat give me her trademark grin.

* * *

**Keira's P.O.V.**

I sit with a physical therapist who is blabbering on about absolutely nothing, in my opinion at least. Who needs six months of recovery time? And these exercises wouldn't make a fly sweat, let alone make me ready for "training", whatever that is.

I let my mind wander and think back to the events of yesterday. That chilling, son of a bitch hasn't showed up and neither has Barton, the other son of a bitch, but in a very different way. I try to recall exactly what happened as I blacked out, but everything is fuzzy. I remember fighting frantically against the doctors and nurses that rushed into the room, but I also remember them being the shadows and horrors in the alley, not in the hospital room. I remember the hallucinations as if that night was only yesterday, but then I also remember what snapped me out of them, or so I think.

_"Keira! Keira, calm down!" Barton shouts as his rough, but familiar hands pinned me to the stark cold tiles._

_ "Barton?" I ask uncertainly. I recognize his hands and his voice, but his face is a blur, save for his demanding blue eyes._

_ "The one and only, kid." I feel a prick and the sliding of metal inside skin as they inject some substance into my arm, but Clint is here and he wouldn't let them harm me, right? I feel drowsiness sweep over me, engulfing me like a waved and attaching weights to my eyelids. I'm seconds from going under when he grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. His voice sounds like its miles away and I strain to hear it. "Listen kid, you're gonna be okay. Do you trust me?"_

_ Then the blackness takes over_

I come back to the present with a sigh. Did all of that really happen? Or was I just hallucinating, which I very well could have been. Another thing, did I respond to his question? Do I trust him?

_You don't need this now, Keira_ I growl inwardly_. Don't trust anyone, don't let anyone in. No one will look out for you except _you_. Want to stay alive? Than play it smart and _don't_ trust him_.

_Ya, but what is life worth living if you never live? Living without trust runs you down, it is even more degenerating than trusting anyone. How bad could it be to trust only one person? How bad could it be to just let the walls down once and let one more person in to share all the baggage I carry around? _I reason back mentally to myself.

"Keira? Are you listening to me?" the therapist asks while waving a hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my inner monologue.

"Yes," I lie glibly. I have absolutely no idea what she's been saying, and I could care less. She starts over again, explaining why I need to keep rested, when to do the exercises, so on and so forth. I tune her out again and resume my former conversation.

_I'm warning you Keira, don't let him get too close. He will hurt you over time. You may think it's crazy now, but you won't when it happens._

_ How do I know that? I've never met someone like Barton before. How do I know he will abandon me like…_

_ Like you're father?_ I cringe at the words. _Yesss, yes, just like you're father, that deadbeat who left you for dead when you needed him most, the one that was always in such a drunk stupor that he rarely recognized you. Do you really think… Hawkeye… could replace him?_

_ I never said that!_

_ But that's what you mean. Don't lie to yourself, you know it is. _

_ Shut up!_

_ You are going to wish you listened to me later—_

Suddenly, the door to my room slides open, jolting me out of my thoughts with a small gasp.

_Speak of the devil and he shall appear!_

_ Shut up!_

None other than Clint Barton strides through the door.

"Therapy session is over, doc. Override to protocol 114, Director's orders," Barton barks, motioning the doc to the door with a slight tilt of his head. The therapist quickly gathers up all her clipboards before placing sheets with exercises on my bedside table.

"Remember to do these every morning and evening, along with all the stretches I showed you," she reminds sternly. I give her my sweetest smile and nod to appease her before she saunters out of my room. As soon as she is gone, I swat at the pages, scattering them all over the room. I swoop the closest ones up from the ground and crumple them in a fist, throwing them at the trash can with such horrible aim I won't bother telling you how bad it is.

"Had a bad morning?" Barton asks sardonically. I groan in response as I bury my face in my hands. "Did you even listen to anything she said?"

"Why should I? It's not like I'm ever getting out of these stupid rooms!" my shout is muffled by my hands.

"Yes you are, right now. Let's go," Clint motions to the door.

I lift my head up, disbelief written all over my face, "What?"

"Today's your lucky day. Grab your stuff."

"Really?" I gasp.

He rolls his eyes, "No, just kidding. You can stay another six months of recovery in here if you want."

Needing no more invitation, I jump up and brush past him to the open door, "Not a chance, Clint, not a chance."

I can feel his smirk to my back as I walk out into the hallway. I pause, looking left and right, trying to figure out which way to go, when he pushes past me and turns right. I follow mutely, trying to memorize all the twists and turns we take, but soon I'm completely lost.

_Like you would want to go back to your cell? Get real. He's not leading you into a trap or anything_ I think to myself.

Suddenly, without warning, the tunnels break off and we are in a buzzing command center. I freeze momentarily, with panic rising in my chest.

_They are not enemies, Keira. Trust, remember, trust_ I calm myself down.

"You coming?" Barton prompts when he realizes I'm not following. I take a deep breath and a dry gulp before moving out of the door frame and into the room. I stare around me in amazement, taking everything in (and noting where all the exits are, just to be safe).

Men and women in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms are typing on computers, monitoring things I assume are all over the world, but what strikes me is the open window at the very end of the room. Are those… _clouds_?

I don't realize I'm staring with my mouth open until Barton reaches over and chucks my chin. I jerk away from him, my fist curled in a ball and raised defensively.

"Easy there, no one's going to kill you," Barton smirks.

I choose to ignore his humor. "Are those what I think they are?"

"Maybe; it depends on what you think they are."

"I've been on a… _airplane_ the past three months?" I ask incredulously.

"No, you've been on a helicarrier, Ms. Matheson," a new voice says behind me. I swing around skittishly, finding a curious sight. A black man in a trench coat with a pistol in a thigh holster (standard S.H.I.E.L.D. gear) and an eye patch is watching me with a calculated look. I return the favor and eye him up warily. I can't make up my mind if I like him or not. My gut tells me he is a "good guy", but my instincts say not to trust him. I think it's the eye patch that is throwing me off…

Finally, he extends his hand to me, "Welcome aboard, officially, Matheson."

I study his hand for a moment, before letting my eyes travel up his arm to his eyes. I search them for any deceit, any lies, any traps, but all I see is the same calculating gaze I'm giving him. Finally, I reach forward as well and grasp his arm firmly. "Thank you, Director Fury."

"So Barton told you who I am already?"

"No," I answer back evenly, "I just observe."

He studies me for a moment more before turning to Barton, "A word?"

Barton nods and follows Fury to the other side of the room so I can't hear, but one advantage I have is extra keen hearing. Who knows why I have it, but I do.

"There isn't much to her, Barton," Fury says.

"Give it time, Director," Clint responds.

"We aren't in a training facility. What are you going to do? Train her in the gym?"

"No sir, I'll take the next quinjet available and transport her to the nearest training center."

What? This is news to me. Does he mind communicating these things to me _before_ he makes them into plans? I roll my eyes.

"Then what, Agent Barton? She has talent, I'll give you that, but what are you going to do? Just stop your missions for three years and train? She hasn't even finished all the protocol procedures for medical."

"Sir, I can promise you she is perfectly healthy, and what _is_ wrong with her is simply the lack of activity. Also sir," Barton's voice drops so I have to strain my ears to hear, "there seems to be suspicious activity with our doctors, specifically, Keira's psychiatrist."

"Activity? Does this have anything to do with her relapse?" Fury questions, his voice lower as well.

Clint doesn't respond, but stares at the Director while handing him a file. Fury studies Clint for a moment before taking it and flipping it open. He skims over the information for a moment before letting out a sigh and handing it back to Barton.

"Override to protocol 114 excepted, Agent Barton," Fury murmurs.

"My thanks, Director. And about the missions sir, she will be coming with me."

_Excuse me!?_

"Agent?" the Director's reaction is just the same as mine.

"Yes, it's unsanctioned, but the missions will be counted as he training, along with the basic training that she will receive at the facility."

_No way in hell the Fury's going to agree to that_! I shout in my head. Of course, part of me wants to believe that he won't so I can get out of this little pickle.

Fury studies Barton for a moment, both of them having their own conversation without words. Finally, he speaks, "Very well, Agent. I'll take your lead on this, but remember my warning."

_What?!_

"Understood, Director," Barton murmurs back. The Director stalks off and Barton walks back to me, a smug smile on his sarcastic face.

"What the hell was that?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You heard all that?"

"Like hell I did! I'm going on _missions_? In the name of all that is good and holy! You cannot be serious!"

"You'll have adequate training, of course," he says in a "duh" voice.

"What the hell does that mean?" I hiss back. "I never said—"

"Keira," Barton interrupts me, "I promised you I would make you an assassin—"

"I don't remember that promise," I mumble.

"—and not just an assassin, but the best there is in the business. No one will be able to touch you Keira. That is my promise. Do you trust me?" Clint presses.

I shake my head stubbornly and respond without thinking, "No."

He just laughs lightheartedly, "That's a very different tune to what you were saying when you were knocked out."

With that, he turns and walks away, leaving my world in shambles, and he knows it. I hate how he can do that

"Wait, wha—hey! Come back here! What do you mean?" I shout after him as I jog to keep up. He just laughs and doesn't answer me. I'm not so sure I want an answer, so I keep a sullen silence. I feel three years old again as I follow him, looking at my shoes and dragging my feet.

We thread through the many passages of the helicarrier and I get many strange looks in the process. I just glare back at anyone who has the audacity to openly stare.

Suddenly, Clint pushes a door open to the runway of the helicarrier where quinjets are parked and tied down.

I suck in a breath as I feel like my lungs are being crushed from the change in air pressure. The wind whips through my body and I feel like I'll just be lifted and taken over the side of the helicarrier with a strong puff.

Clint walks across the runway and I follow blindly, hunching down against the wind and not paying my attention to my surroundings. A couple of arguments and threats later, a quinjet is prepped and we are inside it. Well, I'm in the back and Clint is driving. I don't know whether to be excited, scared, nervous, distrustful, or paranoid.

I sit on the hard bench, clenching the sides with white knuckles to keep the bouncing at as much of a minimum as possible, but my butt hurts like crazy. Soon I get used to it and I feel my eye lids start to close. I force them open, staring stubbornly ahead, but they start to droop again. Without being fully aware of it, I fall into a deep, dark sleep where nothing exists: not dreams, not nightmares, not memories. It is refreshing.

* * *

I wake up hours later to a crooked world. I blink a moment before jerking upright. I must have fallen to the side on the bench when I fell asleep. The quinjet is still flying, but the turbulence has calmed down considerably. I rub a sore spot on my head ruefully from where I was lying on the bench.

I get up and stretch my arms above my head before yelling at Clint, who is still flying in the front. "Barton! Are we there yet?"

"Oh, God no, don't start with 'are we there yet'." He yells back. "And yes, we are here."

"Impeccable timing," I mutter as the quinjet begins its slow decent down. Soon, it touches ground and the back ramp opens up. Only darkness floods in and I realize it is night. I wonder how long we were flying, not that it really matters. I slow move down the ramp and I have my breath stolen from me by what greats my eyes.

We are in the middle of some desert like wilderness with no other building in sight. A huge runway is lit up by lights, leading to a hanger that is twice the size of what a hanger should be. I know that inside is the training facility containing everything needed to make an assassin. This sends shivers down my spine.

I feel and hand on my shoulder and immediately swing around to Barton. He pulls away, quickly, knowing he startled me.

"Keira, after you step in there, the next time you step out, you will be a trained killer. Do you think you have what it takes?"

"_You're_ the one who thinks I have what it takes," I mumble.

"Yes, I do, but that means nothing if you don't believe it," he shoots back.

I pause and think for a moment before answering, "Barton, I really don't have a choice. If I go back to where I was before, I'm behind bars. There is nowhere for me to go except here," I finish.

He nods and swings a duffle bag over his shoulder before heading to the building. I take a deep breath, and follow.

* * *

A.N. sooo, she's going to start training after this. Do you want me to explain all her training (starting with day one and everything that happens) or skip straight to her first mission? I'll probably do whatever is most convenient, but I would love to hear your guys' opinions anyways :)


	10. AN

Hello my readers! So my computer has been acting up, making me unable to type or anything to work on my story... I just got it back up to be able to get onto the internet, but the Microsoft Word is not able to open up yet... So I am leaving for a camp tomorrow and I will not be back for nine days, but my computer will (hopefully) be fixed by the time I get back, so I will update then. Thank you for the reviews and also for the happy birthday! I am going to do the first day of training and then... well, you will have to read it then :P

Adieu!


	11. Chapter 10

**A.N.** Soooo, it's been awhile... really sorry about that, but summer was crazy and this chapter is really long :) It was an absolute blast to right though! I think you guys will enjoy it ;) Review and tell me how you think the plot twist is going...

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

I follow Barton wordlessly to a discreet door in the side of the building. He pulls out an id card and holds it up to a scanner. The scanner makes a beeping alarm sound and the door swings open. Barton and I walk in to a tunnel like hallway that leads to yet another door. He holds his id up to that one as well and it swings open.

I jump back a little warily at what it reveals. A woman in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform is standing with her arms crossed, obviously waiting for us. She is obviously muscular and a very imposing 5'11" for a woman. Her face is blank of emotion while her piecing blue eyes flick over everything. Her platinum blond hair is pulled back into a professional, military bun, only emphasizing the rigidness and lack of curves on her entire body. Her jaw is wide and strong with a large nose and forehead while her shoulders are broad and lined with obvious muscle along her entire body. I swear, if I didn't know better I would have said she looked like a man. She isn't pretty, not by a long shot, but she doesn't look like she _wants_ to be pretty. She looks like she wants to beat the crap out of you.

"Agent Hunter," Barton acknowledges curtly.

She doesn't move or acknowledge Barton back but gets straight to the point. "The Director said you'd be coming with a new recruit."

"What else did he tell you?" Barton questions. She barely waits for him to finish before answering.

"Not much."

An awkward silence settled over our little group while Barton and Agent Hunter have a staring contest. I try to make myself the smallest and attract absolutely no attention. Of course, she turns her unnerving blue eyes straight to me. I avoid them and look at the ground, wishing Barton would get me out of this situation.

"So this is the recruit?" she questions as if I'm not standing right there. Neither of us answers since she already knows the answer. With her hands clasped behind her back, she slowly circles me and I can practically feel the line of her sight all across my body. "Not what I expected for putting up this much fuss," she comments to herself, which I find very rude.

"She was in medical for three months. Her physical condition is degraded," Clint adds. I send him a death glare from under my eyelashes. He is NOT helping.

"We are already full, I don't see how we can accept another recruit—"

"You don't have to worry about that. I'll be the one training her," Clint interrupts. Agent Hunter gives him a slightly surprised look before watching me with even more interest.

_Dang you Barton!_

"Fine," she clips curtly before heading to a computer and typing something. I breathe a sigh of relief now that her eyes are off me. "Your room will be 563 and you report at 0500 for your PT (physical test) and ME (medical exam). The rooms are through that door and straight down the hall. Dismissed," she cuts off.

I don't even glance at Barton before practically running out the door, thankful for any excuse to be out of there.

I hear the two agents talking in low tones, before the door slams shut behind me.

"Through that door and straight down the hall," I repeat softly to myself, "number 563."

Sure enough, I come across it in the millions of doors down the infinitely long hallway. I rest my hand on the door knob for a moment and pause. I cast a quick glance around. I wonder briefly how many of these rooms are occupied, and how many sleeping people are in here, just waiting for the sun to come up and bring another day.

I push the door open to reveal a cell like room, no different from the hospital ones I have been staying in; save this one has no tubes, wires, needles, and weird machines. A simple white cot is tucked in the corner with white sheets and a white bed stand on which sits a white alarm clock and all this blends in with the white walls. Two white doors to a closet and a bathroom are barely visible against the walls. I don't bother with anything, since I have no gear and no possessions, I have nothing to worry about. I practically fall into the cot that is a poor excuse for a bed and pull the itchy covers over my head, tunneling myself down as far as I can go.

So here I am, on my own, in a foreign and not very friendly place where I will learn to become a killing machine (the thought makes me shiver. I couldn't kill a person, right? I don't want to kill people. I quickly move on from that thought) with the mentorship of an assassin, _right_… this is going to be good.

_Ouch_. That is the only conscious word that registers through my mind as pain tears through my entire body. Hawkeye's blows keep coming while I'm still recovering from the ones he gave a minute ago. Though they hurt like hell, I know he's holding back because I felt his _real _punch before I ended up in the hospital. Compared to that, these are nothing, but they still hurt. They're quick. They're concise. They're too fast for the naked eye to follow. But I start to realize what he wants me to do. In the beginning of the spar, I tried to block all and every of his blows, but now that he's worn me to the point of exhaustion, I start to calculate the ones that will cause the most damage, and the ones which seriously need to be blocked, or they would knock me out. He also seems to be using the same tricks over and over again. I _know_ he has more of an arsenal then that, but he keeps using the same ones so that I can learn from experience (rather than school room teaching) the best way to cope with them. But the most important of all, he's training me to take a beating, to keep fighting when I know there is no hope for my victory, to take the hardest hits but be so accustomed to them that they barely sting, which they are already doing. My body is growing accustomed to these brutal shots, and what used to sting like hell before I barley blink an eye at now.

I don't even see his fist coming, but suddenly it slams into my temple. I feel my neck twist and my back arch, being forced backwards from the weight of the blow. It was so unexpected that my body doesn't even try to resist. I see black spots, well, more then I already did, and my hearing buzzes.

I slam into the ropes around the ring and slump against them, clinging desperately. My legs shake and tremble underneath me so I doubt they can hold my own weight, but I push them to at least keep me up with the support of the ropes.

Suddenly, I'm flying through the air. Years of doing this has made me stay calm, so I start to twist my body the way I would to land feet first, but something is holding onto my legs. I feel panic well up in my throat as I see the ground looming closer. I thrash out and wiggle desperately, trying to rid myself of the imprisoning weight that is pulling my body down. The desperation gives me an extra rush of adrenaline (which, if I'm completely honest, I love. I love the feeling of exhaustion, and then the rush that pushes your sweat soaked body to do things that you never knew possible, all the while feeling the nearest to death from dehydration you've ever felt before) but it seems to do nothing.

My mind calculates before I consciously do that I will not have time to land on my feet anymore, so it reflexes me to cover my head and curl into a fetal position while twisting so my back will take the landing.

It comes all too quickly and I can barely breathe as the air leaves my lunges in a _whoosh_. The fact that Hawkeye's hand is pinning down my abdomen doesn't help as I struggle to breathe.

Of course, this isn't enough for him. One hand forces my defensive position open while the other wraps around my neck, cutting off my already minimal air supply.

"I think," I barely manage to wheeze out, "you won."

My mind is already turning, and he has made one big mistake. When he forced my legs straight and out of their curled position, he forgot them as he straddle them in order to get a good position for the choke hold.

"Mistake number one: you turned your back to your enemy."

"Mistake number one," I respond, "you thought I was down."

Barely before I finish speaking, I use the leverage of his hand against my neck, and even though it is extremely painful, I push against it to give my extremely weak legs a boost. I hit him right in the crotch and immediately feel the tension on my neck slacken. I use my left hand and shove his choke hold sideways. Since his grip was already slacked, he just slips off my neck. I backward roll away from him and bound to my feet in a defensive position.

I don't know how he recovered so quickly, but he is already up by the time I face him. He doesn't lunge at me, nor is he even in a fighting position. He is simply observing me with a calculating look. I don't let my guard down. He might just be waiting to pounce. As far as he's been playing, anything goes. It doesn't matter how you win the fight, what matters is if you win.

"So who wins?" I ask.

He grins at me. "Technically I did."

"Um, technically you had me down and you underestimated me and I took the opportunity and outsmarted you," I snort.

"Outsmarted me? You just managed to slither out of my grasp."

"I managed to stay alive. If this had been a real fight, I would have gotten up and had enough time to run away before you were able to catch me again."

"If this had been a real fight, I would have given you a knock-out punch and overpowered you during the first thirty seconds."

"Ouch. I guess that's why you're training me, isn't it?" I grin back. Suddenly, all my adrenaline leaves and I see black spots again. I feel my legs shake and they tingle with exhaustion, barely able to hold me up. Not able to hold me up at all, in fact. I slump forward and fall to my knees. To keep myself from falling completely over, I fall forward on all fours and hang my head, retching and gagging, but nothing comes up.

Hawkeye is there with a bottle of water, lifting up my face and holding the bottle to my lips. I can barely get any of the water down though.

He laughs, "Good fight."

I roll my eyes the best I can.

"You ok?" he asks with enough decency to act as if he has a speck of concern. I don't answer, but just hang my head. I'm still struggling to breathe after that trip through the air and back down. "Breathe," he commands. What does he think I'm trying to do? Hold my breath? I would indulge my first impulse to say this out loud, but I decide not to waste precious energy on something as trivial as pacifying my own wounded pride and need for sarcasm.

I think over the day. The past few hours have been pretty much hell. It's only about eight in the morning, but I was brutally roused at five. Then I was dragged off for my ME (medical exam) which was horrible. Doctors, again. Hordes of them, bleeding, scoping, scraping, and puncturing me with needles, heart monitors and the like. My paranoia of hospitals and records nearly got the best of me, but I managed to stay calm enough not to kill one of the docs before they delivered me to Hawkeye. I remember his ironic words. _Had a bad morning?_ He had asked. _It was nightmarish_, I responded. After that was my PT (Physical Exam), which I understand I will be taking monthly for the duration of my training. If I'm correct, Barton was rather unorthodox with it though. Then again, I don't think either of us is following the rules as far as my training goes.

So here I am, in the aftermath of an extreme beating and wondering what exactly is going on the file for my "physical exam." After all, getting the crap beat out of you on your first fight (true, I didn't have any training, but still…) can't look very good. The very fact that I'm here under constant observation and monitoring by a _government agency_ and possibly everything I say and do might end up on a _file under my true name_ is rather distracting. While on this topic, I still doubt whether I was in my right mind when I decided to come here or if Hawkeye hit me harder than I thought.

Either way, I'm here now, for better or for worse, and I comfort myself with the thought that I could sneak away and return to my old life if I ever felt the need to. Part of me knows this is a lie though. Part of me knows that I've seen behind a curtain only a select few ever even get a glimpse of. There is no going back.

_ No!_ I tell myself fiercely_, I can leave WHENEVER I like. You know how to disappear. You know how to vanish into thin air. If things go wrong, you can always hack their systems, erase anything they have on you, and then vanish into thin air. _

My ruminating is interrupted when Hawkeye grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. The sudden movement causes the black spots to return with a sudden fit of dizziness. I gasp and clutch at his arm, trying to steady myself. My sweat is already drying cold on my skin. I feel the shakiness in my legs, no longer from complete exhaustion, but from the after effects of a severely taxing workout.

"Get a drink, breathe, and then meet me on the floor."

This place, which looked like an oversized hanger from outside, is really an elaborate network maze of dorms, eating areas, offices for the trainers, and the biggest part designated to what is called the "Training Center" and inside the Training Center is a floor rather like the one used in gymnastics on which moves for close combat that include acrobats such as flipping or moves that need an open space.

With a nod, I duck under the ropes and jump down, heading towards the drinking fountain. The Training Center is the main center, but also there are many (thousands) of individual training rooms that can contain anything from the basic lifting, to an obstacle course with elaborate traps and snares, testing the agility and endurance of the trainee. There are also lap pools, diving pools, running tracks, treadmills that are sleek and shaped like hamster wheels, and many other types of elite equipment that have not been released for the use of the general public.

Five minutes later, I'm standing with Barton on the floor.

"So, show me what you can do."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

"Just what I said."

"Stop being so damn cryptic and answer me," I can't help but snarl. I'm tired, sore, in extreme pain, and I know things are going to get a whole lot worse from here, thereby not helping to improve my temper.

"Let's start off with the simple skills. In hand-to-hand combat, the most elite of the assassins can use any trick they need to outwit their enemy. That includes basic maneuvers such as back flips, front flips, hand-springs, long jumps, so on and so forth, and use these maneuvers on items around them. First, though, you need to master these skills on the most basic level."

"So basically you want me to show you how much of my gymnastics training I've lost over the past threeish years of not practicing," I say in a flat tone.

"No, I want to see how much it will come back to you, and if I'm correct, it should take minimal time to get back into your muscle memory."

The next three hours are spent on mostly gymnastics tumbling. I feel tentative with each skill as they gradually increase in difficulty, but soon I'm starting to feel at ease. It feels so good to practice my standing-back-tucks over and over and over again, just like I used to years ago. It feels so good to have Hawkeye coach me on kips from the ground, focusing on changing this bit of form here, a bit more there, tweaking it until it hits perfection.

I was in the middle of a simple round-off-layout when suddenly, the last time I had been flying through the air and things went terribly wrong came flashing before my eyes. My pass had been a triple-twisting-double-back. Everything had felt wrong from the start, even the run. I remember taking off. The world flashed before my eyes, but I was at the wrong angle. I was too low. I knew it was wrong. I wouldn't have enough time to twist. But I was already moving, my muscles automatically obeying the move they had practiced a thousand times before, never doubting its fellow muscles that had made a miscalculation from the start. I was right and I didn't have enough time to twist. Or at least, finish the twist. I came down still twisting, cleanly snapping the tibia and tearing numerous muscles holding my knee cap in place. I didn't know this at the time of course. All I knew was a horrible pain stabbing up my leg, then everything going black, and then blazing white. People's muddled voices babbling in the background, and foremost a horrible screaming. It took me a long time to find out that it was my own scream.

I land my simple layout, but my eyes are wide with horror. I can barely breathe, and I stand in the same place where I stuck my landing, stiff as a board, arms extended in front of me, knees bent under the impact of the land, and eyes unseeing to anything in front of me. Did it really happen? Did I just relive that horrible experience in my mind, or actually in my body? No, I couldn't have. I just landed the layout. Than why am I hyperventilating?

I snap out of it as Hawkeye waves in front of my face.

"Keira, you listening to me?"

_No, I just heard absolutely nothing you just said_, "Yeah, sorry. I was… just thinking about something."

"Ok, good, cause we need to work on your form on the takeoff. After your reach your hands to the ground—"

I tune out the rest of the sentence, going through the motions mechanically. That was the first time I'd allowed myself to think of the incident in years. Now it all came flooding back to me. All of it. Including the fear.

The fear of flight. One of the most terrifying there is, and a gymnast lives in it consistently. But that wasn't all. Sure, I'm afraid of the physicality that I have to face, but more than anything, I'm terrified of losing confidence in myself. What if Hawkeye asks me to do some amazingly crazy stunt, and I just can't do it? What then? Do I go back to the street?

_You just told yourself you wanted to go back there_, I remember.

_I said I wanted to, IF things went wrong, not because I didn't cut it. Not because they kicked me out and I have nowhere else to go_, I argue desperately.

_Riiight, so you got yourself working for a national security top secret government agency, and then you expect to just walk away? No. They will never let you leave. They will keep using you until you are of no more use to them, and then they will abandon you and throw you out onto the street like an old shoe. It has its perks right now, but later, you're going to regret ever trusting that deceiving wretch._

_ NO! Hawkeye helped me! He is still helping me! _

_ Of course that's what you think right now, but what about later? What about—_

"Keira!"

I snap my head up and find Hawkeye's demanding eyes boring down on me. What am I doing on the ground? How did I get down here? What has he been saying?

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I lie, quickly standing up.

"Get your head in the game, you don't have any more time for daydreaming," he snaps.

_I wasn't daydreaming you idiot, I was contemplating the possibilities of being killed or used in my bleak-looking future._

"You have a thirty minute cool down, and then go to lunch."

With that, he turned heel and left.

_Whatever_, I grumble as I ease myself into cool down stretches. I spend my thirty minutes enjoying the tug and loosening of my taxed muscles. I can already feeling them cramping and tensing. As I stretch out my limbs, I inspect the black and blue bruises that have already started rising in welts on my arms, legs, abdomen, and face. Those are going to look bad in a couple days. I find I also have a busted lip and what feels like an angry, red welt across my cheek bone and of course a bruise on my temple from that immense hit I wasn't able to block earlier.

I realize my time is up, and I quickly make my way through the endless maze of corridors to the cafeteria (with the help of numerous maps and signs along the way. I pull open the door and freeze.

It never hit me before how many recruits there actually are. There must be _thousands_, all chattering and mingling like one big organism of crawling insects. Granted, my metaphor is not the most flattering, but it aptly describes the sight that greets my eyes. Some of them seem older than me, but a minority might be a few years younger, which surprises me. How do they get these kids here? Orphans? That is my guess. What parent in their right mind would ship their kid off to military/assassin training school at the age of twelve? Maybe ones with extremely limited financial situations and extremely bright children.

Then it dawns on me just how ratty I must look. I'm in the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. trainee uniform. A latex suit-like unitard with light combat boots. No fancy gadgets, no pockets or belts. The suit itself is a drab, dark grey color with a S.H.I.E.L.D. patch on the shoulder. These suits breathe nicely, but seem to stick to your skin in sweat.

Of course, I'm sweaty as hell and my hair is ratty, falling out of its ponytail, and frizzled. Everyone else seems to have perfect hair; all smoothed back and perfectly pulled away from the face. All he boys have theirs in longer crew cuts, like Hawkeye's, and the girls either have their hair wrapped in a military bun or pulled back in a ponytail.

After getting a tray and filling it with random stuff, I sit at the end of a table that seemingly no one has claimed. I hunch my shoulders over my food and hope to get through the meal unnoticed and go back to my training.

"That's my seat," a calm and quiet, yet firm, voice states behind me.

"Really? I didn't see your name on it," I shoot back, not bothering to turn around.

I keep eating my food, waiting for some sign of an oncoming attack, but nothing happens. The person just waits behind me for a long time, as if deliberating what to do.

_Well let them deliberate and I can eat in peace_.

Finally, the person seems to have made up his mind and rounds the table into my vision line. A boy who looks about fourteen with dark hair and ice blue eyes meets my gaze. He is small, but I can tell right away he is incredibly smart. I have no doubt he got into this program if only for that. Like I said, he's small, but that does not seem to diminish his size. Rather, he seems to be emanating a calm, quiet sort of leadership.

I realize he wasn't telling me to move out of spite, but he was just showing me how things are done around here. Or rather, how they _should_ be done. I never do things how they _should_ be done.

He sets his tray across from me deliberately. Everything this kid seems to do is deliberate. He never once broke our gaze.

"So you're new here?" he asks quietly.

"How could you tell?" eye roll.

He ignores my sarcasm and keeps staring at me with intensity. "You didn't come with the new batch of recruits, and you're too old to have anyways."

"Ya, I'm what you consider a… _late comer_."

"How'd you get here? I haven't seen you train before," he inquires. All his questions are concise and to the point, each and every one meant to get an answer to the question he wants.

"I got here last night and it's none of your business how I got here," I respond snappishly.

He nods curtly, but I can tell it's more of a we'll-continue-this-conversation-later-but-right-n ow-I've-gotten-all-I-need-out-of-it kind of nod. "How'd you get the bruises?"

"Training."

"And you've only been here half a day?" he asks skeptically.

"No one's beating me up if that's what you're asking. I haven't even met anyone except you."

"Who's training you? You weren't assigned in a group. Did you have training before hand?"

"Those answers are classified."

"Bull," he states bluntly.

I grin at him. No matter how annoying he is, I kinda like him. I mean, he's not mean, arrogant, and intrusive in a meaningless nosy way, but he just wants information.

"What about you? How long've you been here?" I ask to divert the conversation to him. No doubt he knows what I'm doing, but I don't care.

"Sometimes it feels like months, sometimes like centuries," he says with what _may_ be a ghost of a smile. I still can't tell. I smile obligingly, but he's not giving me answers. His statement is clear, _give me straight answers and I'll give you ones back_.

I study his face. It's thin, but not shallow. His skin is white, but not pasty. His nose and chin are small, but not delicate. He has a determination and a cold fire behind those ice blue eyes that I can sense.

"What's your name?" I ask bluntly.

"What's yours?" he shoots back.

I stare at him a moment longer before replying, "Keira Matheson."

"Nathan Ortuso," he replies without skipping a beat.

"Now we're getting somewhere," I grin.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, you?"

"Sixteen."

I'm dumbstruck. This kid looks easily fourteen years old. True, he's about exactly my height, but I look like a twelve year old…

"I know, I look fourteen," he echoes my thoughts.

"No older than me," I laugh amiably.

"So you want to know how to survive here?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, bewildered.

"What I said, do you want to know what it takes to stay alive in shark-infested waters?"

"That doesn't sound comforting," I remark dryly.

For the first time I get a grin, but it's more a grin of cynical realism than actual humor, "Nothing here is comforting."

"I don't think I'm going to be actually spending a lot of time with you guys," I shoot back warily.

"Doesn't matter. You get beat alone, you get beat in public. Same, see? Trainers not always be there to save your ass, and after you get beat, they won't. See?"

I do see. He's telling me that if I get beaten alone in the bathroom, I'll have the bruises to show it to the world, than it would be as bad as if I got beaten in public. The trainers will label me as a coward, someone who needs the toughening up. They will use the pecking order as a way to make sure all of the trainees rise to the top. As for Nathan's lapse in language, I'm guessing it's some sort of slang they use here. I'll pick it up eventually. But what he doesn't know is that after my first week of training with Hawkeye, I won't have to even worry about the stupid pecking order.

"I see," I answer slowly, not breaking his gaze. "What else do I need to know?"

"You tell me what you know then I'll tell you what _I_ know," he counters.

"I don't know anything," flatly.

"Bull," he says again.

"Well how 'bout this. What do you think I know that you would like me to tell you?"

"You've been on the other side."

"What other side?"

"Figure it out, Keira."

I study him carefully, turning the wheels in my head and working the problem out in my mind. He said I've seen on the other side. The other side of what? The other side of the curtain. That phrase was in my mind earlier this morning. I'd seen the other side of the curtain of a national security government run agency that a select few were allowed to know about, let alone see. Is it possible that even these trainees, these to-be elite of the elite don't even know what they are training for? Or maybe they do, but they only have a vague idea. Or maybe they have no idea at all. Maybe they are taking a leap of faith, trusting to dumb luck that they are spending their adolescent years training for something worth giving up your life for. This should be enough for them, but not for Nathan.

He wants to know what it's like on the other side of the curtain. He's like me. He doesn't trust in dumb luck, he makes his own. He doesn't trust what everyone tells him. He's calculating, cynical even, but damn is he good. So if he doesn't trust, then why is he here? Maybe we have more in common than I first thought.

"You're off the street." I state. The words come out without my permission.

"So are you," he counters again. I don't deny it.

"You know I've been in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bases."

"Obviously."

"How?"

"You didn't come with the group of new recruits. You're too old to have anyways. You're physical condition suggests you've been in quarantine for a while, but my guess is the hospital. You're off the street, I can always tell a fellow brother of poverty. You came in the middle of the night, no explanation, no introductions. That suggests that you're not following the "curriculum" they teach here. They are training you for something special. They didn't even put you in a group. How did you get here? We are in the middle of nowhere in some of the toughest terrain there is. My guess is you came in a quinjet. In order to have come in a quinjet, you needed to first have come from the dock, and to come from the dock, you had to have come from a S.H.I.E.L.D. base."

"Good deducting, except for one small fact you skipped over."

"Oh really? And what is that?"

"I was in _quarantine_ the whole time. I didn't exactly get much of a chance to see how the system works."

He looks disgusted. "You mean you didn't find a way to hack their systems?"

"Not exactly. They kept me on a… tight leash."

A buzzer startles both of us out of our conversation. Lunch break over. I guess half an hour went faster than I thought.

"What's your room number?" he whispers urgently.

"Why?"

"Just tell me!" he pushes.

For some reason unknown to me, I tell him, "563."

"Fine. See you tonight."

"Wait—" but he's already gone, mingling into the crowd. In mechanical movements, I clear nearly all the food on my tray into the trash bin, we were talking so much I was able to eat hardly any of it. So, I made a new friend, or what I hope is a new friend. Nathan Ortuso. He's smart. I like smart. He might not have a lot of friends, but he knows how to stay alive.

I take a quick glance around, and sure enough, some of the big kids (the bullies) are eyeing me like candy. I'll have to watch my back for a while.

So how does Ortuso survive? He's small, but I think they leave him alone because they know that no matter how much they try, he will always be smarter than them. He has that quiet demeanor, but calm leadership. They back away because they know that he has more command over himself than they could have over him by beating him up, and they know that no matter how much they pick on him, he will never lower himself to trade punches at their level.

Smart kid.

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts, I don't realize until too late that I am lost in the maze of corridors. I wasn't keeping track of where I was going, and now I'm lost. Crap.

Suddenly, I hear a voice blare over the intercom, "Keira Matheson," I can't help an involuntary flinch at my name, "report to deck 307 for review."

Whatever that means. I quickly locate a map and look for deck 307. Soon, I'm off walking again until I come to deck 307.

It looks like a computer room, and I guess it's where all the trainers and instructors run this place. There are at least twenty computers lined up across all the walls with desks at each one.

The room looks empty and it's dark, save for the light of the computer monitors, that is, until Agent Hunter stands up.

I quickly put my cool mask on, not betraying any of the terror I feel as she walks towards me.

"Matheson," she holds out a silver stick, which I guess is a flash drive, "here is everything you will need for the duration of your training here. I trust you will review it tonight in your room."

I nod mutely, even though I'm burning to ask her where the stupid computer I would need to plug this in is. I don't remember one being there last night.

"Next you have Military Tactics in the simulation room number 9838 pod number 6720 which starts in three minutes. You better run if you want to get there on time. A mark off on your first day cannot look good on your record."

Once again I nod.

"Dismissed."

I snap a quick solute before turning and running off. This isn't fair, and she knows it. All the other kids had a good five minutes extra to get where they had to go, whereas me, on my first day, was set up to be late.

Once again, I have to locate a map and sprint to my "Military Tactics" training. Whatever _that_ is.

Luckily for me, I have, if not a photographic memory, something pretty dang close. I have an image of the map in my head, and the places on it that I studied are crystal clear, but this place is extensive, so I don't bother trying to memorize the _whole _map. When I need a new piece of information, I simply study it and memorize, storing it away for later.

I find the "simulation" room as it's called, or room number 9838. I enter and something I did not expect greets my eyes. The room is completely dark, save for pods that are semi circled down into the floor. A faint glow, relative to a computer monitor, rises from them. There are steps leading down into them, and the floor, which has about a two foot radius, seems to be lit up. I cannot see clearly from here what is on the walls of these pods, and I cannot see where all these pods end. They seem to be stretching out forever, their faint glow rising from the floor of this dark simulation room. I'm dumbfounded. I've never seen anything like this before.

"Recruit, state your name and pod number," a clipped voice says behind me.

I whirl around and find a trainer staring down at me. "Keira Matheson, 6720."

Soon, I'm climbing down the stairs of one of these pods. My pod. I realize what is on the walls. They are holographic 3d images. Right now it's simply on "screen saver" mode and fish, sea urchins, and marine life all float around me. I reach out to touch a rainbow fish that swims by, expecting to just be reaching into thin air, but the fish reacts. This scares the shit out of me. It jerks its position away from my hand as if I was really swimming with it.

I jump back, tangling my feet in the process, and go sprawling against the far wall.

"Careful," the trainer who is standing above me snaps. Then she leaves.

The place where I landed is devoid of fishes. They all seemed to have gathered on the opposite side. I guess that my movement must've scared them. Now I know what they mean by "simulation room."

The program must be responsive to movement and is intelligent enough to move its holographic images in response to my movement. I slowly stand up, regarding the shark that swims within a foot of me warily. I know it's just an image, but it still creeps me out.

Suddenly, the sound of machines whirring above me makes me crouch reflexively and cover my head with my arms, scattering the fish that had begun to swim lazily nearby. Nothing comes down on to me, but a sound similar to a projector being let down in a home-theater comes from above me. I remove my arms to find that a ceiling is being rolled over the top of the pod. I bound up the stairs, desperate to get out of this pod before it traps me in, but I'm not fast enough. It seals shut just as I reach the top of the stairs, trapping me inside. I run my hands across where it is shut, and then throw my shoulder into it, but I already know it's futile. I feel panicked.

It is a large enough pod, it stands about two feet above my own head, and the bowl like walls give it the feeling of a wide space along with the depth perceptions of the holographic images, but I know I can't get out, and that is enough to frighten me.

Suddenly, the holo changes. It reflects the incredibly life-like reflection of water all across the pod, changing the ceiling (which I see now also reflects 3d holo images so that I feel immersed in the environment) to seem as if I am deep in water and I can see the fragmented images of sunlight beaming ahead. Even the floor has the images of deep sea underneath me with a coral reef to my left.

I stare down in marvel at my hands and feet and find them covered in the reflections of water, as if I was truly in it. I walk forward to touch the walls of the pod, but the ground underneath me moves as well, matching my pace. I almost fall over in surprise. At first I think that perhaps it moves so that I may not touch the walls, but when I look to my left, the coral reef seems farther away. I take more steps, and soon the coral reef is simply a speck far away in the sea.

"It's beautiful," I murmur, looking all around me and seeing ocean as if I was underneath the surface.

"Voice activation required," a mechanical female voice sounds.

Voice activation? "Keira Matheson," I state.

Suddenly, the wall opens up and a small screen pops out. "Palm scan required," it says again.

I lay my palm on the screen and a laser quickly scans it.

"Please insert your USB drive."

The flash drive? I forgot I was holding it this whole time. I quickly plug it in and immediately the ocean setting vanishes and is replaced by an array of selections I don't understand.

Suddenly, a horribly distorted, computer voice starts speaking. "This is your AI speaking, please select the following preferences to personalize the program to your tastes."

I wince the tiniest bit, repulsed by the voice. So I have an AI, and what for? Why would they spend easily thousands of dollars on software so intelligent for a mere recruit? The AI must be linked to the pod and everything else I do. By the _extensive_ array of personalizations, I estimate there must be thousands of options. Then it dawns on me. They want to know everything about you. They want to know how you think, how you move, _what_ you think, and basically have a road map around you psychology so that when they send you on specialized missions, they can team you up with people who will compliment you, set you up on missions that will best suit your abilities, how you will react to those missions, and basically all the logistics that would affect the out outcome of the mission.

If you think of it that way, it makes a lot of sense.

But I don't apply to those rules. I'm not going to be that "average agent." I'm going to be an assassin. At least, if Hawkeye can be trusted. Either way, this AI is a way to get inside your mind. It's a way for them to learn your thoughts, your dreams, your preferences.

Well, two can play at that game.

Also, I'm absolutely sure they are testing my intelligence right now based on how I'm able to adapt and learn to program this thing. Tentatively, I reach out and tap a random preference, which is simply a hologram image. I think maybe it will react like a computer, and by tapping it, it will open as if I clicked it with a mouse, but I'm wrong. Instead, if follows my finger as if I had grabbed it.

I wrench my hand back, and the image goes flying to the other side of the room before bumping to a stop against the curved wall.

More confident, I reach out for one that says "voice." I grab it and hold it like it's a small box in my hand. I study it for a moment, confused as how to open it or get a response. I put both hands together, and then pull them apart as if pulling it open. Sure enough, it opens to a whole new set of more extensive and precise preferences.

So this is extremely similar to a computer, or a hacking device, both of which I'm wizards at. Soon I feel as familiar with this as I did with my own devices. It's also kind of fun. I mean, what computer geek wouldn't love a 3d hologram complete submersion inside the computer itself? Not even that, this is one of the most advanced of technologies I've ever seen. Whoever built it is in the cutting edge of technology.

My memory comes into service here. I can open a file, close it up again or leave it open, and when I come across something that would be useful in that category, or vice-versa, I remember exactly where everything is and exactly how to get back to it.

The first thing I decided to focus on was the voice, but then I changed my mind and decided to work on commands, personalizing them, reprogramming them, until I have the most sensitive commands. I don't know how long it takes, but after what feels like hours of working, I have this thing answering almost as if it was a real person. I know that I'll keep tweaking it over time until I can develop her into as real a person as I ever can.

I think for a long time over what name I should give it. I know that I would prefer female, but what name? It had to be meaningful to me, in a way that would baffle psychiatrists, but would make sense to Hawkeye, or simply people how know me. What drove me here? What forced me to be found and brought out of hiding? The war. The war that was started by the villain, Loki. Hey, I had a lot of free time before Hawkeye actually found me and I'm sure the CIA are still trying to find out who infiltrated their systems… even if they do, I'll probably have full immunity. Loki, the brother of Thor, the Norse god of thunder. Loki made his war out of pure malice, only to take the world from the brother who he thought slighted him. Sif. Sif was a beautiful maiden from Norse mythology who was stunning, who had hair like the golden sun, and in a fit of spite, Loki slashed it all off. I'm the maiden. The one who was a victim of Loki's pure spite. Rather self-pitying, I don't deny it, but it's relatively true.

With that settled, I focus on her voice, tweaking it, while I listen to the before recorded voice activation over and over again, reprogramming it over and over again, changing the pitches to create the perfect combination, changing it from the repulsing computer, mechanical voice it was before.

Finally, it suits my tastes. I look over my command programming once more before finally being satisfied.

I take a deep breath and call out tentatively, "Sif?"

"Yes?" a quiet, almost _childlike _and girlish voice answers back softly. I can't help but let a smile spread across my face. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling of that sweet, innocent voice. It's exactly how I always imagined the real Sif's.

I don't know what to say next, so I decide to start it as I would a conversation with a stranger. "Hello."

"Hi," she answers back shyly. I smile again.

"How are you?"

"Considering the fact that I was just brought to life and given a voice and a _person_, I feel rather well. How about you?" she asks a little rhetorically. I almost forget that I was the one who programmed her to have that.

"That's good." I want to ask her if they are recording this conversation, if they are listening to everything we say. There is no way she couldn't know, but until I know exactly how to program her, and we get more comfortable, I'll just have to stick to small talk. After all, they might block what her true answer would be, so until I figure out how to bypass their security systems, I'll be able to expand Sif past the normal intellectual design that they have restricted us to. "What time is it?"

"According to the S.H.I.E.L.D. data bases—"

Suddenly, her voice cuts off like a dying computer, a burst of static, and then the lights flicker out and the whole pod shuts down, leaving me in the dark.

"Sif?" I call out timidly. No answer. It's deathly quiet. Not even the normal, quiet hum of the computer screen around me.

Suddenly, the machines start whirling and I see the ceiling retract. I guess I either passed or failed the test. Well, at least they are letting me out now.

The mechanism in the wall opens and my flash drive pops out. I yank it out.

I slowly climb up the stairs, realizing just how exhausted I am. Hours of standing in one place takes more energy than one would think.

I barely notice that all the other kids are pouring out of their pods, like spewing forth the children from their bellies, yielding them to a cold world.

I don't know what time it is, but my internal clock tells me it's time to sleep. I start heading towards my cabin, and no one intercepts me. I vaguely wonder where Hawkeye got to all day, but I'm so tired I could care less.

I push open the door to my room, slam it behind me and make sure it's locked (it seems to lock on its own. Probably so the trainees don't roam the halls at night. I guess the doors won't open until the morning when they intend to let us out.

I don't peel off my suit, but just flop in bed, already feeling the effects of over-taxed muscles. Burying my head in my pillows, I shut my eyes, but I can't sleep despite my weariness.

The flash drive is bothering me. She said I should plug it in and review it tonight, what the hell does that mean?

I make the humongous effort of lifting my head and scan over my room. Then I see it.

Resting against the far wall, a completely white desk has been placed and I can see something on top of it. I drag myself out of bed and pad to the desk on silent feet. A device similar to an ipad, but much thinner and larger by about triple the size, is waiting for me. I pick it up, and immediately it turns on, requesting me to palm in so as to encode this particular device to me.

I let it scan my palm, and then it clicks open, directing me to insert my flash drive. I fumble around my wrinkled bed sheets where I dropped it until I find it and plug it in.

"Keira," I hear Sif.

"Sif!" I respond, a little startled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm installed in your flash drive. Wherever you plug me in, I'll be a part of the software, easily adapting to it so that I control all of the connections."

"Why did they give you to me?"

"They transmit all information you need through me. I'm basically your calendar, reminder, and computer wrapped in one."

"I see. What am I supposed to be studying right now?"

Another 3d holo image immerges from the screen, this time of a whole file of information. I reach for it and find that I can manipulate it just as I did in the pod.

The first thing that reaches my eyes is the phrase, "override to protocol 3290, recruit Keira Matheson will be said 'fit for missions' as soon as the first period of her training has commenced. She will not be integrated into the normal S.H.I.E.L.D. training curriculum, for hers is made specifically to her unique needs for the role she is to play for S.H.I.E.L.D. undercover assignments."

This is just the beginning of a whole bunch of protocol breaches. I pour over them, seeing that this is their way of giving me a glimpse of what the next years of my life will be.

I'm so wrapped in my work, I don't notice the slight vibrations in the ventilation system above my door, or even the slight _thuds_ that steadily grow louder. It's not until the screen actually falls through, clattering to the ground with the most deafening noise, that I jump, startled from my quiet contemplation.

Except something falls through _with_ the screen. I'm hampered with the computer on my lap, unable to react as fast as I normally would.

Since I know I can't get up and run around it (also, the stupid door is locked) I decide that my best bet is to scream bloody murder until some trainer comes in and saves me. I'm about to let out a scream, but the thing (or person) reacts faster than I do. I just see a shadowy blur, and then a hand clamps down on the back of my neck and another over my mouth so my scream is effectively muffled, but this person doesn't stop there. He (or she) forces my mouth open, jamming two fingers down my throat. I gag, retching forward, all thought of screaming gone from my mind like they had never been there.

I lean over, coughing violently. I try to get up to defend myself, but every time I move just brings a-whole-nother wave of nauseating coughing.

Finally, my lungs calm down enough that I turn my head, finding the person standing next to me and looking down at me.

"_Ortuso_," I gasp angrily before launching into another spurt of coughing.

"Good to see you too," he murmurs, but his voice is odd. He seems to be preoccupied. Suddenly I remember, I left all my files open for him to see. With a quick motion, I clap, bringing all of the holo images to a condensed format in my palm.

"Deactivate," I hoarsely whisper to Sif. Immediately the whole system shuts down, leaving me and Ortuso in pitch darkness.

A light clicks on and I see it is coming from Ortuso's hand, he must have a flashlight. Its blinding beam shines directly in my eyes.

"Hey," I protest, throwing my arms up to shield my face.

"What did you shut it down for?" he asks quietly, not moving the light.

"I don't want you snooping."

"Who said I was snooping?"

"If you were, then I stopped you, if you weren't, then you shouldn't care, right?" I challenge.

I caught him and he knows it.

"What are you doing here?" I bark.

"Come with me," he commands. With that, he jumps up lightly, his amazingly strong and flexible fingers finding purchase on the edge of the metal ventilation shaft. He pulls himself up with a small amount of struggling, kicking, and wiggling before gliding his whole body through and disappearing into the dark shaft.

I stare dubiously after him for a moment before jumping up, pushing the screen (which was still lying on the floor) under my bed, and doing the same as Ortuso. Why I'm following him, I have absolutely no darn idea, but he seems to know his way around the system, and that is good enough for me.

I follow the sound of his crawling until suddenly he stops and clicks on the flashlight. Around us is simply the duct work we are in, and we seem to be at a crossroad. The path we followed continues straight, while another crosses and goes who knows where.

"The rooms are bugged and taped, we couldn't talk there," he explains. I nod, looking around me. "So they had you working on you AI?"

"Yup."

"Odd," he murmurs.

I snap to attention, "What?"

"I said it's odd. They usually don't have trainees working on them until a month of training."

"How do you know what I was working on?"

"I keep tabs on every kid in the program."

"How?"

"Follow me."

And follow him I do. He leads me through many twists and turns, which I carefully observe and route the way back, just in case, until he comes to a deck similar to the one I was in earlier.

He stops, shifting over to give me room to slide up beside him and peer into the room. Unlike the last one, this one is teeming with activity. Trainers sliding from computer to computer, printing, faxing, calling, ordering, all a hive of activity.

"I keep an ear out. I also learned how to infiltrate their systems, but they caught me. They don't kick me out, but apparently they don't think that the level of security I have is dangerous. As long as they keep me there, I'm not a liability."

I nod again, not taking my eyes from the scene below, "So the level of security they let you breach is the one that keeps the tabs on all the students in the program."

"All of them, except yours," he says pointedly, penetrating me with his dark eyes. I snap my gaze to his, eyeing him warily. Stripes of shadow cross his face from the screen in front of us, making it hard to read his expression.

"So that's why you were surprised to see me today; not that I was put in a different program, not that I was pushed ahead and at a faster pace, but because you hadn't even _seen_ me on your data."

"Apparently your information is a higher pay grade."

"My information has always been a higher pay grade," I grumble.

"You're a New Yorker," he suddenly switches. This kid keeps throwing me off.

"How could you tell?"

"You have a slight accent, especially when surprised or showing emotions."

This rubs me the wrong way. It makes it sound like he has been documenting everything I do, not letting a single face slip past him. It makes it sound like I'm a science experiment to him and that he doesn't care for any of my emotions save to see if they give him information. I immediately let my walls come up, steeling my eyes and my face into a cold mask. "Well maybe you shouldn't know after all, if the superiors don't want you to get too close. It never ends well for the people who do anyways."

"I'm a Californian," he adds as if ignoring my obvious anger.

"Neato," I say, exasperated. Honestly, I could not care less where he's from.

"How did they recruit you?"

_Um, no way kid_, "It's a long and heartfelt story of which you would not want to hear, I am sure."

"We have a lot of time."

"You're just trying to get information to put in your little documents so you can keep tabs on _all_ of the trainees, so go to hell."

"Ah, I see. We misunderstand one another."

"Really? Well it would help mucho mass if you would explain to me what you want rather than leaving me to guess at your ambiguous questions."

"You're good with computers, I can tell already, and I want your help."

"With what? Penetrating all the layers of SHIELD's firewall so we can take over the whole system through their computers. Sorry, no can do."

"No, I don't mean that, I mean that if we work together, we can figure out more things than if we worked alone."

"What would I want to figure out? I'm happy with the situation as it is."

"Don't tell me you don't have questions, Keira."

This stops me. Of course I have a lot of questions, but what could working past SHIELD's firewalls do to change that? What could infiltrating possibly the most secure government run organization do to give me answers? Oh that's right, because it is the _only_ one that has any information on me. The one with the most actually, and that is a very powerful weapon over my head. If I can have an assured means already in place of being able to completely erase any existence of myself so that it will be as if none of this nightmare with SHIELD had ever happened. Now _I_ will have a weapon over their heads, a double cross if anything goes wrong. I'm sure that if I can bypass their mainframe without falling into any traps or tripping across any wires that will set off alarms, I can keep my intrusion secret. Then all it would take is a simple software to be installed that would allow me to erase the files with a single touch of the keys. I'm sure I can use Ortuso's methods of hacking, coupled with my own, and use them behind his back, serving him, but mostly my own purposes.

Suddenly, partnering with Ortuso doesn't seem like such a bad idea. It's a delicate game, but I know I can play it.

"I'll work with you, Ortuso, but on one condition," I say, cautiously.

"Listening," he responds, watching me intently.

"If we are going to be partners, I'll need complete guarantees that we are working together and you aren't going behind my back," a little bit of irony since I had decided to double cross _him_, but being a guttersnipe off the streets, I know how to be ruthless.

"That is all very good, but how do I know_ you_ aren't going behind _my _back?" he retorts

"Simple, my condition will go both ways. We merely have to have complete access to each other's work and files, keeping everything public between us, linking our systems so we know the other cannot make something private, that is related to work of course, without the other being noted. No tricks, no lies, just straight honesty."

He debates a moment. I can see the wheels turning in his head, assessing, probing, analyzing any possible double cross, but he can't see any. That is because he's thinking along the lines of progressing, that I would screw him over to elevate myself above him, using the advantage to bypass him and leave him in the dust. But what he doesn't take into consideration, and I know he won't, is that by the time his system noted him of any of my activity, I would be long gone and my files erased.

He holds his hand out, offering it as a sign of friendship, mutual trust, and partnership. But I know that if you are from the streets, deals and double-crosses fall down every day and betrayal is rampant.

I reach back and grip his hand tightly, a façade to both of us. That is all it could ever be. He gives me a grin for the first time and I give him one back, but I can see lies behind his eyes, and I know he can see ones behind mine. We will never trust, ever.

_Be careful, Keira_, the little voice warns in my head. For once, I don't silence it.

_Don't worry, by the time we are gone he'll still be wondering what hit him_, I promise. I grin just a little bit bigger, laughing at my own wonderful scheme.


End file.
